When Ravens Fly
by Silent Quicksilver
Summary: "A coin for your story, good sir," she said, slipping into a seat next to the half-drunk man. With the great kingdom of Erebor retaken and Smaug defeated, a new age of prosperity begins for the dwarves within the deep halls of the Lonely Mountain. But at what cost? For a dragon's hatred and malice runs deep. A young woman returns to the land beneath the mountain's shadow.
1. A Story Told

**Summary** : _"A coin for your story, good sir," she said, slipping into a seat next to the half-drunk man. With the great kingdom of Erebor retaken and Smaug defeated, a new age of prosperity begins for the dwarves within the deep halls of the Lonely Mountain. But at what cost? Many lives were lost in the quest to reclaim a kingdom, and the stench of a dragon is not easily washed away – for his malice and evil runs deep._

This story is "slight" AU (arguably a bit more than just _slight_ ), wherein Thorin, Fíli and Kíli survive the Battle of the Five Armies; references to occurrences during the Hobbit are mostly taken from the movie-version. **Slow romance**. **OC**. And, of course, I do not own anything related to the Lord of the Rings, the Hobbit, or anything else associated with neither books nor movies, although I may wish I did!

Also, as a warning of sorts, I am a _very_ sporadic writer and my writing speed depends highly on my motivation (and if I have time). I apologize beforehand.

Please enjoy - and let me know whether this story is worth writing!

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter I: _A Story Told_

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 _May, The Third Age 2942_

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With the last tunes of music fading into the quiet hum of the marketplace, throughout the hubbub of traders closing shop, laughing and shouting, she turned her gaze up and her fingers stilled against the lute. A shadow had fallen across The Guarded City, the last rays of light streaked the clouded sky in a tangle of pink and orange; the sun vanished beyond the high peaks of the White Mountains as nighttime crept over the city of men. The warm May weather had lured many out from their houses during the day, and the square had been filled with people, both young and old.

She had watched children, faces lit with smiles, weave their way through the crowd in play; with ribbons more colourful than the rainbow and wooden swords, clashing in tales of old. Wide eyes taking in the toy maker's contraptions, the whirls, the puffs of smoke, and with prices that forced the eye to see, yet hands not to touch; the City Guard patrols carving clear paths in the mass of people, silver armor polished and spotless, for they had never seen war nor battle.

Only few had heard her songs above the noise.

An elderly couple, backs hunched from years of work and old age, had quite enjoyed her tales of Elendil the Tall, but had left after many tugs and complaints from their small, restless grandson who had not appreciated her song. When she had changed the tune, spinning a tale of fearful quests, of heroes and princesses, a crowd of youngsters had gathered. Yet they had nothing to give in return except lighthearted claps and praises. She had bowed and smiled, but watched the wooden bowl at her feet go unnoticed.

She watched the clouds drift by high above, holding a promise of a calm and peaceful night.

Letting out a soft hum, she flexed her fingers and released the strings of her lute, allowing the instrument to fall into her lap.

Picking up the small bowl, she quickly emptied the contents into her palm. A few silver pennies lay in the flat of her hand, and, a soft sigh leaving her lips, she shifted in her spot against the white wall. With a melodious clink, the coins vanished into the pouch strapped to her belt; fingers eased a thin leather string through a hole in the bowl, allowing it to hang from her waist as most of her scarce belongings did. Her stomach gave a faint growl of protest. Stretching her arms and legs, she came to her feet and weighed the coin purse in contemplation.

"A warm meal," she spoke quietly under her breath. There should be enough for at least some stew – perhaps even a pint of ale? Then, securing the lute across her back, she made up her mind and quickly made her way across the town square and the few stalls still open; most inns and taverns came alive at night, when the guards changed shifts and the townsfolk closed shop, and, if luck came her way, a chance of work could appear. She knew quite a few drinking songs that were popular with the men of Gondor.

Drunken men always appreciated a merry tune.

The Third Level of Minas Tirith held many a tavern to accommodate the barracks at the gate that led to the lower parts of the city, and the prices were mostly affordable, even for her – and even more so for the soldiers that frequented the warmth of a hearth and promises of beer and food. The open space of the marketplace narrowed, the main street forked into several smaller, darkened pathways and alleys; she took a turn, then another and paused. From hinges, creaking in the soft breeze, an intricately carved sign hung above the tavern door.

An oval shield, flanked by two longswords and with the words, _The Guardsman_ , written beneath.

There had already gathered a small crowd outside the building; the men were still in their uniform garb, a white tree against the darkness of their tunics, but they appeared unarmed and jovial. Laughter welled up from the group, and she stepped closer, ducking behind a pair and continued through the opened door. What first hit her was the smell of newly baked bread and the loudness; a clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen, the booming laughter of the tavern keep, and the voices spread across the tables of the room.

She pulled the lure further up her back, quickly easing her fingers through her hair and smoothened the worst knots and tangles; then she stepped up to the counter. The innkeeper, with his back turned to her, yelled something or another after a fair-haired barmaid before, grumbling, turned to serve her. "Welcome to The Guardsman," he greeted, voice a deep rumble behind a thick beard. His customary smile faltered slightly, beady eyes flickering over her from top to bottom before settling on her face.

"I would like a table, some stew and your–" She shifted under his gaze, clearing her throat with a cough. "–Your cheapest ale, please."

"Pay upfront," he gruffly responded.

Her nose crinkled in slight ire, but she nonetheless rummaged through her pouch. She placed a single, small golden coin on the counter. The metal shone and her eyes lingered briefly, the shortest of moments as light dances across the golden surface. "Will that do?" She asked pointedly. Receiving a curt nod in return, she stepped further into the tavern room and looked for a free spot among the, already now, drunken men. Tucked away into a corner, furthest from the crackling flames of the fireplace, was a table and she immediately headed for it. The lute – her most priced possession – was gently rested at her side; she slid into the seat, gaze dancing across the gathered.

Most were men, with hands calloused from hard work or training, but in between she spotted red and gold dresses; she was not the only one who hoped to find work that night, but the colourful and painted women were using a skillset entirely different from her own. Her fingers traveled across the strings of her lute, creating a soft thrum of music only she could hear.

Her stomach growled again.

Stretching in her seat, she attempted to spot the keep and tapped her fingers against the wooden planks of the table, impatient and hungry. _Surely_ it could not take that long? And she had paid more than enough for some proper service. A barmaid rushed through the room, balancing several jugs of ale with practice ease and without spilling a single drop, but spared no attention on the minstrel in the corner.

Hands flat against the table, she sank back into her seat. She had arrived at the most hectic time of day, so maybe her food would arrive when the customers before her were served. A sigh escaped her lips. Cupping her face in her hands, her eyes fluttered shut and she listened to the voices around her. The stories that were told and shared. Light and shadow danced across her eyelids. At a table not far from her a burst of giggles erupted, followed by a string of flirtatious murmurs and sweet nothings; a pair of hushed voices spoke of a lingering darkness, too quiet for her to hear, but their tone of voice sent shivers crawling up her back.

... And then she heard it.

"–paid a pretty price for me to fix 'em, they did. Almost threw coins at me, that's how much in a hurry they were to get to Erebor."

Her breath hitched in her throat at the name – _Erebor?_ – and her eyes shot open; she looked towards the voice, halfway up her chair, and saw a group of craftsmen eagerly listening to the tale over half-empty pints. Their cheeks were blotched, a drunken stupor setting in. Dinner forgotten, she hurriedly grabbed the lute and approached the table with resolution. "A coin for your story, good sir," she said, slipping into a seat next to the half-drunk man as he barely noticed her. He blinked twice, cross-eyed, before his gaze settled on her.

"Excuse me?"

She pointedly ignored his ragged, foul breath, though incredibly unpleasant, and smiled. "A coin for your story," she repeated, quickly rustling through her savings and fished out a silver penny. The rest of the table had stilled, silently listening to the conversation. A bushy eyebrow raised, his attention flickered to the small coin between her fingers then back to her face. Then they lowered, further down and her stomach lurched.

"Why would a pretty little thing like you care for a Dwarvish city?"

"I am never one to pass on a good story." Gesturing towards the lute at her side, she tilted her shoulders in a shrug, easing slightly back – and away – from the man. She slid the coin over the table, watching his stare follow its movement. "I have not heard many news from the North, nor has anyone since the dragon took residence within the mountain. Your words piqued my interest, that is all." Her heart was racing in her chest, an eagerness creeping into her tone of voice that she could not still, and she prayed the man would accept her payment.

Her only tales from the lands around the Lonely Mountain told of the riches – the pride and greed – of dwarves, how their vast treasure hoard had brought their own destruction in the shape of a fire dragon. A herald of death that had consumed the lands in flames. And then nothing was heard from the region; two centuries had passed, where the people of Dale led measly lives beneath the shadow of the mountain, forever in fear and vigilant. Rough fingers fell upon her hand and she instantly recoiled, drawing herself close and shot the man a look of indignation.

He and his companions guffawed, his dark eyes gleaming as he took her coin.

"A lass like you probably plan to make quite a bit of money from news like this, are you not? Would imagine a more ... _fitting_ pay," he said, all the while pocketing the silver coin.

He then scratched his scrawny, brown beard and grinned at his companions.

She forced a smile, hands clenched into fists until they stilled against her rough skirts. Knowing well what the man had implied, she considered her option; the insides of her mouth were dry when she swallowed. Then she exhaled slowly and responded. "I am afraid I cannot pay you any more than this, though perhaps I can offer you and your friends a song after? A story for a story sounds a fair trade to me."

"Can't be any good songs if you can barely spare a penny," another taunted from across the table, a leer revealing a row of yellowy-black teeth before he gulped down the contents of his mug. Her eyes flashed, but she ignored the jab and returned his comment with a faint smile. If not for her desperation to hear from the northern wilderlands of Rhovanion she would have thrown the ale in his face and stormed off. Or possibly _running_ for her life, provided that the men would give chase.

"I can assure you, _good sir_ , that my song will be sufficient payment in return," she said with little warmth.

Her words merely sent another wave of cackle over the table, loud enough to earn them several looks from the tavern guests and she ducked her head, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. Whether he could read the desperation in her eyes or merely grew bored of playing with her, she did not know, but his next words came with a sigh of resignation. "I have my doubts, but very well, lassy – I tell my story and you sing your song after," the brown-haired man spoke, waving off his company's disagreements with a large hand; relief flooded her and her features eased slightly.

"Thank you, sir."

He settled back into his chair, resting his half-empty mug on his knee and gave her a long look. She returned his gaze evenly, back straight and attentive. "When I was opening shop this morning I was met by a group of unlikely travelers in the need of my assistance. The front-axle of their wagon had snapped in two on their journey from Dol Amroth, and they seemed in a rush to have it repaired. Now – I _have_ seen Dwarves before, mind you – but never in such a hurry. So I asked 'em, I did," he paused to drink and watched her over the rim of the mug.

Her brow knotted together at the thought. They were likely merchants or craftsmen trading in Belfalas, it was not uncommon, and Dwarves were seen in the city on their way around the dangerous paths of the mountain range, buying supplies before their long journey westward to their homes in Ered Luin. "The King under the Mountain has returned, they said, Erebor has been reclaimed by this fellow named ... what was it again? Thorin, Throin or something, and they wished to return–," he paused. "You all right, lass?"

She sat, staring at him with wide eyes that stung from tears threatening to fall, and a sense of dread numbed her senses. Erebor had been freed from the dragon? Her grip tightened around the hem of her skirt, white-knuckled as her mind raced. What about the dragon; what of Smaug the Magnificent – _Tyrannical_ , the terror under the mountain – for without a doubt the beast of old had not left of his own volition? "H–how did that come to pass?" She asked, voice breaking. "Was there not a dragon?"

"Shot dead. Felled by a man from Lake Town, but not before setting most of the place on fire." His face, pulled into a puzzled frown changed as realization settled over him. "You have family there?" She sniffed and nodded. "They're fine I bet you, don't you worry your pretty little head over that." He cleared his throat, glancing at his friends for assistance, but no one made a move to help and he let out an uncomfortable laugh.

If only Smaug had allowed the Dwarves to retake Erebor without a fight, then ... Her hands picked up the lute, resting it into her arms and breathed slowly. The peace would have been broken eventually, she knew that, for the Children of Aulë were drawn to gold almost as strongly as dragons were. But had the Lonely Mountain merely replaced one evil with another? "Thank you for your tale," she said. "Please allow me to repay you with a story of my own."

So she sang.

She sang of fire and of gold, and her voice filled the tavern until all else stilled to listen. And her tears flowed free when she told the tale of family, of warmth and safety – a daughter's love for her father, a fragility so easily shattered. It was not long before coins were passed to her and she indulged the customers in their requests, smiling gratefully; the quiet replaced with the trampling of feet and drunken merriment.

Her fingers danced across the strings.

But a heaviness clouded her heart, a weight that nothing else could lift.

It was late that night when she finally left The Guardsman; most guests had returned to their homes – carried or walking – and only a few remained to hear her last song. The brown-haired man, head buried in his arms, had soberly stayed by her side throughout the evening; his dark eyes followed her when she stood to leave. "You were right," he spoke, voice muffled by the folds of his shirt. "Your song was payment enough. Tell me – what's your name?"

"I am Ranel," she lowered her head in a slight greeting. "The Wandering Minstrel."

Then she stepped out into the darkness, knowing well where her journey next would take her.


	2. The Long Road Ahead

Thanks for the warm response to my first chapter, I greatly appreciate it!

Please enjoy the second part of Ranel's journey.

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter II: _The Long Road Ahead_

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The air was clear, fresh against her face as Ranel fastened her belongings onto the leather belt, tight and heavy around her hips. With both lute and a satchel slung across her shoulder, she knew the journey – already a several months long trek through the rough wildernesses that lay ahead of her – would be tediously long. Of course the burden of her supplies, that had left her money pouch painfully empty, would hopefully make up for her only worries before reaching Lake-town. She fiddled with the scruffy cloak, its edges caught and wrinkled below the straps of the satchel.

Her fingers worked with ease, gently tugging the fabric out and the weight slumped against her back.

While the green fields of Anórien were safeguarded by Gondorian men, creating relatively safe passing for travelers, the flat grasslands would soon open up for untamed domains. She had spent most of her morning with a deep frown across her features, mulling over her various possibilities and the route to follow; only responding in half sentences to the traders, Ranel had quickly stocked up on various items and food. The fastest, most direct, road was through the swamps of Nindalf, then further into the Dead Marshes, a place she preferred to stay clear off. The lights of the long forgotten were company she could do without. At the mere though, she felt a chill rush over her.

No, even if it would be a hundred mile detour, it was far less dangerous if she followed the roaring waters of the Entwash through Rohan. Ranel inhaled for a long moment, hands pressed to her sides, as she looked out through the opened gate to the unending stretch of green, continuing far ahead and beyond the horizon. _Right_ , she thought, corners tilting into a small smile, _this will not be the first time._

Then she took her first step onto the long road ahead.

Her shoes, well-trodden from use, quickly slipped into a comfortable pace; not too slow to be a walk, nor fast enough for a run, and it did not take long before she passed the few settlements and caravans around the city walls. The chatter and noise dimmed into silence, only broken by her soft footfalls against the dry dust of the road. The tall grass rustled, danced, in a pleasant eastern wind, almost enlivening in the warmth that had claimed the region in the passing from Spring to Summer. Though it had been some years since her last real journey, a familiar, enjoyable sense of quiet solitude washed over her from being on the road again.

Perhaps she had lingered too long in Minas Tirith.

The history, the _stories_ , of the city had kept her lingering for longer than first planned, taken by the towering white walls so clear below the sun – even if her songs had not been quite as appreciated as they should be, Ranel had liked her audience and the pay had been enough to get by. The road twisted south, following the distant mountains covered in misty clouds, glowing almost gold as the sun rose above the peaks and ridges.

Fingers aimlessly fidgeting with her belt, clasping and unclasping items, Ranel slipped into thought once more as her feet led the way.

Images flashed her mind's eye. Soft waves rolled across the glistening stones as she stood by the shore, looking out over the Long Lake.

The mirroring waters looking as if on fire, dark crimson and orange streaks whirling against the deep blue and beyond, perched against the dimming horizon, stood a single lonesome peak. While the land appeared tranquil under the setting sun, a sorrow had taken hold of her on the shore; she had known to go no further, even if her heart pulled her towards the mountain, and she had fled back into the shadow of the woods. His voice – filled with seething anger, with _hatred_ – echoed in her mind, the threat blindingly clear.

If she ever stood before him again, he would take her life ...

A large pair of wings flapped loudly, pulling her away from the memory, just in time to see the form of a bird vanishing into the air, startled from its hiding place within the tall grass. Ranel paused in her step, shielding her eyes with a hand and peered after the animal. Endless blue skies stretched high above and she stood there, unmoving, for a long moment. Ever since she had heard the tale, shared in the dim light of tavern, a sense of undoubtable certainty had filled her. Her last of kin had left the lands of Middle-Earth.

Then, letting out a breath she did not know she was holding, her head lowered with newfound purpose.

Her brow furrowed at the sight some distance down the road; a shape stood motionless, staring directly back at her. She watched him warily, eyes lingering at the large axe resting uncomfortably close to his gloved hand and the light armor protruding beneath the thick travel cloak. Ranel's fingers moved slowly, a clandestine attempt to reach the small knife in her belt, but still he made no motion to move. Feeling the handle against her palm, she gripped it tight, even though she knew it would pose little challenge to his own weapon if they came to clash. It was meant to cut roots and _vegetables_ , not flesh and bone. She swallowed, clearing her throat and called out to the figure. "I bring no intentions of evil nor ill will."

She held up her free hand in a gesture of peace.

He did not respond.

Ranel attempted a step closer, on guard for any sudden movements from the person. "I am traveling from Minas Tirith and wish for no trouble," she said, a hint of confidence slipping into her voice as he seemed without hostility, but rather wary vigilance mirroring her own. Her gaze flickered past him, then noticing the wagon behind him, a little further down the road. Her eyes narrowed in puzzlement then flew back to truly see the axe-wielding figure. The man in front of her was too short to be a man, the frame stocky, with broad shoulders.

 _A Dwarf_?

"Remove your hand from the knife and I shall believe you, lass," he responded with a voice but a low, gruff rumble.

But she heard no real threat within the warning and with that, she loosened her grip, stretched her arms away from her body and then pointedly looked at the Dwarf. "May I approach, Master Dwarf?" He gave a short nod, his thick, dark green hood slipping down to hide his eyes fully; a large palm swept it back, revealing dark orbs beneath bushy eyebrows; a great mane of black hair had been pulled back and intricately braided, matching the long beard that masked most of his face. "I apologize if my approach stalled your journey," she spoke, tilting her head towards the pulled-up wagon and spotted another two Dwarves emerging into sight.

"Can never be too certain who might cause trouble around these parts," he murmured and followed her gaze. Then he turned his dark eyes to take in her attire, clearly assessing every little detail; from her tattered and patched skirt that had seen better days – a _long_ time ago – to the lute on her back, poking out behind her mop of unruly brown hair. "Dangerous for a woman to travel alone – even for a minstrel well versed in the ways of the road."

She gave a slight smile. "So far I have managed."

He watched her for another long, contemplative moment, and then gave a bow. "Frár, at your service."

"Ranel–" She managed to stutter her own name in response, the customary Dwarven greeting flabbergasting her and she blinked repeatedly, perplexed. "–likewise at yours." The Dwarf's leather boots fell heavy against the ground when he turned, silently making his way back to his companions. At first she stood there, opening and closing her hands while not knowing what to do with herself, and wondered if she was supposed to follow – was she meant to see the introduction as an invitation to join the small group? Pulling the satchel up onto her shoulder, she quickly followed.

When they approached the group another Dwarf stepped forward, dressed in similar light leather armor and an equally large axe held loosely in his hands; she received a glance of both caution and curiosity, while she recognized a resemblance between the two Dwarves and found the second to have a youthful, less haggard face behind the well-kept beard. The two shared a few mumbled words in Khuzdul, barely above a whisper and clearly not for her ears to hear, so she politely stood back, allowing her eyes to wander in her wait.

She could not believe her luck ... Though she had hoped to catch up with the Dwarven company from the story before they crossed the river, keeping a swift pace to do so, Ranel had not expected their paths to cross this early on in the journey. "Lady Ranel," a voice said, catching her attention once more. The title nearly made her splutter, her ears turning red. "I am Lóni, son of Frár, at your service."

The second Dwarf, Lóni, bowed and she hurried to mirror his actions. So they _were_ related; father and son to be exact. "Ranel, at yours – and please, I am no _Lady_ ," she quickly added, waving her hand dismissively at the notion. If she was lucky, perhaps a _Miss_ could apply."I am merely a lowly minstrel making a living with my songs and stories, and I can assure you I do not deserve such a honorary title."

With two pairs of eyes on her – one with Dwarven suspicion towards strangers and the other with mild interest – she shifted, hiding her eagerness to inquire about their travel and if they truly were the group heading for the Lonely Mountain. She did not wish to come off as prying, knowing well the secretive nature of Dwarves. Frár turned to his son, once more speaking lowly and the younger Dwarf followed the orders quietly; he passed Ranel to approach the wagon, where he discarded his axe against the wooden framework. "What is your destination?" Frár asked.

"I am heading for Lake-town," she said.

His brow knitted slightly, an indication of his surprise and, more so, his distrust towards her. "What a strange coincidence," he responded slowly. Though she was more than a head taller than the Dwarf, she still felt incredibly small under his dark gaze that put her under scrutiny. "So are we." _It really is them_ , Ranel noted and a smile tugged at her lips, though her features were not betrayed by her inner thoughts.

"Perhaps you heard the rumors as well?" She said, greatly hoping to hear the words from a Dwarf to confirm what could just as well have been the ramblings of a drunken man. "That the great kingdom of Erebor has been retaken – and the dragon is no more?"

"What interest do you hold in Erebor?"

She shook her head. "None, Mister Frár, what is in that mountain belongs to the Dwarves that used to dwell within. My reason is ..." She hesitated, pondering how to possibly explain her reasons. "It is _family_. I wish to know what happened, how it all came to pass and, possibly, to bid farewell." Hoping her sincerity was clear in her voice, she looked directly into the old Dwarf's eyes unwaveringly.

"Let the poor lass travel with us, you grumpy old pot!"

Ranel nearly jumped at the voice, head turning to face the sound from the wagon. The Dwarf let out a gruff snort in response.

The wagon was covered, a large piece of cloth spread out tightly above to provide protection from the ever-changing weather to their possessions – and the pair of forest green eyes staring directly back at her from within the shadows. They quickly disappeared, followed by a rustle and then a third Dwarf climbed out; while quite alike in appearance to the companions, she could easily discern the Dwarf as female even behind the distinct downy hairs of a beard; long dark hair kept in place by clasps of woven gold, the softness of curves – not to mention the simple red dress that posed an obstacle as she stepped down from the wagon.

Lóni promptly assisted her, speaking softly though Ranel managed to make out the word _Amad_ – apparently they were now in the presence of Frár's wife and the mother of Lóni. The dwarrowdam locked eyes with Ranel and smiled reassuringly, before walking over with hands on her hips. "Don't worry, dear, stubbornness is hard to come around when you're dealing with Dwarves. Now," she said and huffed. "Would you let a girl journey through this wilderness on her own – she's so scrawny the wind would probably knock her over!"

Her cheeks caught heat at the comment, but she remained quiet.

The stocky Dwarf grumbled an answer, muttering about 'humans' and 'precious Dwarven gold' but withered under his wife's gaze. "Good," the dwarrowdam said lightheartedly, patting Ranel gently on the arm, who felt like she had been swept up and carried away by a storm. "Then it is decided. Come this way, dear, let's get you into the wagon. I could use some _proper_ company on this journey."

"I–, uh, thank you, Madam–"

"Just Nola is fine, my dear."

Unable to believe her luck, she found herself ushered into the covered wagon – in a stream of questions she had no time to answer, if the Dwarf expected her to at all – and barely managed to slip a silent prayer of gratitude to the Valar.


	3. Stories in the Dark

Thank you all _so much_ for the nice response to the last two chapters; in particular thank you for the reviews, and I hope I managed to respond to you all personally (and if not, I am truly sorry – I'll do better at responding already when I get the email notification or I might not get around to you all, too much going on in my head so I get easily distracted). I have read them all and thank you, thank you, thank you!

Also, sorry for my slow updates. Real life and all that, though this was a longer chapter since I wanted to speed up the journey. Fili _should_ appear either in chapter 4 or (more likely) 5.

But for now, please enjoy chapter 3 and the approach to Erebor!

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter III: Stories in the Dark

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Eyes adjusting to the dimness inside, Ranel scrambled into the wagon with her belongings rattling at her belt. While she could fit inside several times over, there was only a narrow space between large crates, stacks of woven cloths and baskets of food, neatly stacked and piled; but she managed to sink down into a spot on the wooden boards, close to where she had entered, and watched the dwarrowdam – _Nola_ , she reminded herself– likewise taking a seat with a little more grace than she had.

"Once more, you have my deepest thanks," Ranel spoke, shifting and adjusting her weight while her fingers eased both lute and satchel off of her shoulders. "It was very generous of you to allow a stranger to travel with you."

The gesture of kindness had come as a surprise, especially when dealing with Dwarves. She had expected to spend her journey trailing behind, out of sight from the group but close enough to seek comfort and security from their presence to ease her own trek across the wilderness. Usually highwaymen and bandits stayed clear of such trouble – trouble that would often leave them with rewards worth less than the struggle, if not bruises and broken bones.

"There is safety in numbers," the dwarrowdam responded with an understanding smile, gaze lingering briefly on the small knife fastened at Ranel's waist. They both knew it offered little protection, if any. Then the dwarrowdam's attention flickered to the side and fell upon a small bundle of blankets. "And you don't seem to have a bone of evil in you, lass, so how could I let you go on your own? Now–" Gently brushing aside the fabrics, a mop of curly, wild dark hair emerged, and a small unsatisfied whimper followed as the child was picked up. "–Allow me to introduce you to the fourth member of the group. Lóna," she said, brushing her forehead against the little girl's before settling the small Dwarfling in her lap. "Give our guest a proper greeting."

Small, chubby fingers curled around her mother's dress, the child turned her gaze to Ranel. "Hello," Lóna mumbled shyly, before quickly burying her face in fabrics. A smile tugged at Ranel's lips as she leaned slightly forward.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lóna – my name is Ranel," she offered as greeting. With no response she rested her back against the wooden boards of the wagon, pulling her legs close to her chest. Dwarven children were a rare sight, small treasures valued higher than any precious stones or gems and were protected as fiercely – the fact the group was travelling with one so small spoke lengths of their eagerness to return to the Lonely Mountain. Erebor really had been reclaimed. "How old is she, if I may ask?"

Nola pressed a kiss to her daughter's temple, then responded with a soft smile. "Barely turned six."

Voices from outside reached her ears and interrupted their conversation, the older Dwarf speaking gruffly in Khuzdul before the wagon creaked into motion; slowly at first, rustling and swaying against the path, until it picked up speed and the two harnessed ponies fell into a comfortable pace with hooves a regular _clip-clop_ throughout the otherwise quiet grasslands. A sense of unquenchable anticipation washed over her and her fingers, in an attempt to still her nerves, fumbled and danced across the hem of her skirt, smoothening folds and wrinkles.

She dreaded the moment she would once more stand on the lakeshore, but Ranel had to know – had to say _goodbye_.

Family was, after all, family.

Through half-lidded eyes she kept her head down, transfixed by her own shadow in quiet contemplation. Silence settled, and the dwarrowdam appeared in no need to break it; in stead she shuffled about the small space, once more settling her daughter in between the woolen blankets with soft murmurs. The white cloth, extended above them, appeared almost golden beneath the morning sun, and the Spring weather made the air inside warm and dry; Ranel relaxed slightly and shook off her glum bearings, knowing well she was being rude towards her hostess' kindness.

She took in her surroundings with interest, sweeping over several crates filled with tools; tongs and hammers of different sizes, some bigger than her hands, perhaps even her head; bellows hanging from hooks, swinging back and forth with the wagon's movements and clacking against each other in a melodious rhythm. "By any chance," she spoke, turning her face back on to the Dwarf. "Is your craft blacksmithing?" Nola caught her eye and gave a hum in response, her daughter's head resting comfortably in her lap. It would not be long before the Dwarfling would be lulled to sleep, eyelids fluttering shut already. "And you plan to set up shop in Erebor?"

"Aye, it will require many hands, and many different crafts, to rebuild. Although our reason to return is not so much the prospects of work." Nola's shoulders squared, eyes alight as her voice brimmed with pride and joy at her next words. "Erebor is _home_ , a home that was taken from our people and, with the loss, forced suffering and misfortune upon us for two centuries. No Dwarf in Middle-Earth would pass up on the opportunity to see its greatness restored. To pay homage to our returned King under the Mountain."

Ranel was left speechless, astounded, but she could not help a smile cross her features.

Even if she was a wanderer without a place to call home, she could understand the notion – to have a place to return to; something the Dwarves had been without for years, as the dragon's attack had forced them to seek work in the world of Men. Dark and grim-faced, she had often seen them hunched over, huddled together in small groups as the Dwarves moved from town to town, offering their great skills in return for payment far less than deserved. In was an unsatisfying way of living for such a proud, and stubborn, people.

The depths of their eyes had never been without yearning and memories of past glory.

The prideful race had been bent under the flames but never truly broken. Her fingers stilled against her skirt. "I have heard tales of the magnificent halls beneath the Lonely Mountain, of ores of gold running deep, and wealth flowing from the mouth of the city–," she smiled. "–I hope that it will all return to Erebor." She truly did, even though she knew the Dwarves' joyous occasion had not come without great sacrifice; not only from the returned residents within the mountain or the people of Lake-town, but _her_ ...

Nola bowed her head in gratitude at the words.

"Then we have a shared wish."

Once more, a quietude filled the space between them; unstrained, comfortable in a way that made Ranel feel at ease. Her fingers gently ran across the smooth surface of her lute so familiar in her hands. She never touched the strings, though, in a worry she might wake the now sleeping child; long, dark eyelashes rested against smooth, rosy cheeks with dark curls falling over a round face. It was a very fair child, she noted. An effortless smile played on her lips at the sight.

Ranel leaned her head back and stared up onto the golden-white cloth, feeling hair tickle the back of her neck.

"How long have you been playing?" Nola asked.

"Always. Or at least it feels that way," she responded with a soft laugh. "It has been a steadfast companion in all my travels."

The lute had been with her through every strenuous and arduous path she had crossed; through the deep snow of the High Pass, through a treacherous blanket of white and the hidden, jagged edges and falls; at the banks of Belegaer, with waves of light blue foam smashing against the rocks in thunderous trembles, deafening all voices and thought. It had been there whenever she lost herself to the beauty of the world, when nothing else could keep her company. When sorrow and loss pressed down upon her.

She could feel the indentations and dips across the surface as she followed the carvings that ran from the neck of the lute to its very base. Wildflowers in full bloom, some smaller than a fingertip, in an intricate pattern of vines and leaves slightly faded with the many years of use. "Will you play us a song?" The question dragged her back into the present, hands curling with tender care over the _Lebethron_ wood.

"I do not wish to wake the little one," she said, tilting her head to the Dwarfling.

"Lóna is more than used to anvils and hammers, and that has never bothered her." The dwarrowdam waved off her concern. "She can sleep through a hurricane." Ranel bowed her head in agreement, brown tresses rolling down her shoulder as she leaned over the instrument in her hands. Her fingers, moving with practiced ease, strummed the lute before she placed it to her chest. Her gaze returned to the dwarrowdam.

"Any requests?"

* * *

Their journey continued throughout the day with no rest or stops, not even when the sun passed its highest point in the sky. The ponies had kept the set pace, allowing them to traverse across the featureless, flat grasslands of Anórien and put quite the distance between themselves and Minas Tirith. Ranel imagined it would be three, perhaps only two, days before they were at the crossings, where the Mering Stream marked the borders between Gondor and the Rohirric province of Eastfold.

She had enjoyed the warm company provided by Nora – and Lóna, once the smaller Dwarf woke some time later. At first the girl had been rather skittish and nervous over Ranel's presence, but the shyness had quickly given way to unreserved, open enthusiasm that only a child could display. They had proved a delightful audience to her songs. Enthralled, even, much to the minstrel's enjoyment.

They were, in particular and perhaps not a surprise to Ranel, interested in tales of their kin.

And while the Dwarves kept to themselves, protective of their culture and history, she was still able to weave together a tale of the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves, which they took great pleasure in. How the Vala Aulë had grown impatient, not wishing to wait for the arising of the Children of Ilúvatar, and then created the first of their race; the eldest, resting alone beneath the mountains until he woke, _Durin I_.

King of Khazad-dûm.

The small dwarfling had clambered into her lap at one point, keen eyes following her every move as fingers played a soft tune and the small mob of hair barely reached past the middle of her stomach. Ranel, resting her chin gently on top of the soft curls below, patiently showed the different sounds and how to create them, allowing the little one to mirror her actions. Lóna was all awe and giggles, and her mother observed the scene with an affectionate smile. "Like this. First here–" Ranel pulled a string, then quickly moved her hand upwards. "–Here, and ... here."

Brow creased in concentration, the young girl repeated the movements yet with some struggles. The small, chubby fingers could not keep up with Ranel's slender, practiced hands, but she still whispered words of praise. It was rare to have such interest shown in her craft and she found amusement in attempting to teach others, and comfort in the presence of another. She had never taken apprentices, knowing well she could not take them along on her journeys.

She smiled at the thought. Not to mention no one had ever _asked_ her.

When she finally needed a rest, Nola had swiftly prepared a late lunch; a variety of dried meats, nuts and dried berries from small jars, bread rolls, and a large, closed-off pot were placed in the small, empty space between them. The smell rolled over Ranel, making her stomach rumble lowly in response. The dwarrowdam moved to take Lóna, but Ranel immediately, reassuringly, said it was of no inconvenience to her. "I quite like my current company," she said with a smile.

"Me too," the Dwarfling added, patting Ranel's cheek with an outstretched hand. " _Amad_ , can I keep her?"

Nose cringling in mirth, Nola laughed heartily and shook her head. Lóna pouted, giving the minstrel an apologetic shrug. "She is not a pet, my dear."

The wagon swayed, but it seemed not to affect the older Dwarf in the slightest; she pulled the cork with a _plop_ from the jar pot, then proceeded to pour a milk-white drink into small cups. The first was passed to the youngest of the group, who immediately gulped down the contents and loudly smacked her lips. Ranel accepted an offered cup, waited for Nola to pour herself one, then held it up slightly to mirror the dwarrowdam's gesture and pressed it to her lips; it smelled spicy sweet, and as the milk rolled over her tongue she could taste the distinct flavor of nutmeg and other spices that she could not distinguish.

Bitter, but she enjoyed it nonetheless.

She took another sip. "You have so many stories to tell," Nola spoke, while she collected food into a small wooden bowl. Then the dwarrowdam passed it to her daughter. "And you tell them with such vivid detail ... I cannot help but think you have actually _seen_ the places you speak of." Once more pressing the cup to her lips, mulling over her response, Ranel quietly watched the dwarrowdam.

"I have indeed, at least to _some_ extend. Though, of course, I have steered clear of both the dark lands to the East as well as certain parts of Middle-Earth, where I know not to expect a warm welcome." The other nodded slowly, considering her words, yet she did not speak. "I have wandered these realms for as long as I can remember, gathering stories and information. Songs and tales. Sometimes I linger in places longer than others; I have spent some years now in Minas Tirith although I could sense it was time to move on."

"Have you never travelled with others?"

"Merchant convoys and the like, if they were headed in the same direction as I. It is rare, for they take different paths." Ranel glanced away, fingers fumbling with the cup between her hands. "But I am used to the road. I do not shy away from, nor fear, solitude in my travels. Walking alone makes me the mistress of my own path and I am comfortable with the way things are." _Unlike this topic_ , she thought, gaze wavering; she had once wished to travel Middle-Earth with someone else, but that was a long time ago.

Nola, clearly sensing her current discomfort and distress, allowed the conversation to drop.

The smaller Dwarf shuffled, catching Ranel's attention; a pair of green orbs caught her glance and she smiled encouragingly. "Have you seen the Lonely Mountain?" Lóna asked, voice filled with curiosity for without a doubt the small child had heard the stories, but never actually seen the Dwarven kingdom with her own two eyes. Like most young Dwarves, to her Erebor was nothing but a faraway tale, a dream that – until recently – was unachievable.

"I've," Ranel said, paused, and took the small, outstretched hand in her own and felt the Dwarf's skin hot beneath hers. For a brief moment she marveled at how quickly the girl had warmed up to her; the trust that had been placed on her, even if she had done nothing to earn it. "Only from a distance, however. I am not so brave to approach a mountain wherein a dragon slumbers. But I have seen the solitary peak, golden below the sun; it is truly a majestic sight."

"Is it the most beautiful you have ever seen?" The Dwarfling inquired further.

Ranel considered her answer, contemplative and responded tentatively. "I have seen many beautiful places, but perhaps it really is."

"I think it is," Lóna said with unquestionable conviction.

A gust of wind, strong – sweeping across the grasslands down from Ered Nimrais – rolled against the wagon and made the cloths flutter loudly, the hinges moaning in soft complaints; but the wagon rattled along, swaying slightly against the road. Inside Ranel could not see the passing landscape and knew not how great the travelled distance was, and she almost missed the never-ending stretches of blue sky above; the breeze against her face and the smell of grass and dust beneath her feet. But, she shifted in her seat, some sacrifices were had to be made if she wished to reach the mountain with swiftness.

She sighed below her breath, once more pressing the edge of the cup to her lips.

As the day grew on to dark, the light turning from glowing yellow to deep orange, the ponies' pace lessened from the demanding work of the day. Lóna had curled up, never straying from Ranel's side, in a woven blanket of intricate patterns, pulled tightly up around her ears even against the mild evening weather. After the light meal, a pleasant quietude settled in the narrow space between crates and baskets. But Ranel was pulled from thought as the wagon bumped and stilled.

They had pulled over.

When the white fabric was pulled aside, revealing a tousled beard beneath a deep red hood, Lóni greeted his mother in a few, quick words of Khuzdul before turning his gaze to Ranel. "Miss Ranel, we are setting camp for tonight," he explained with a bow, then sidestepped to allow them passage out of the wagon. She hurriedly scrambled to gather her belongings, swinging both satchel and lute over her shoulder. She mumbled a flustered thanks when the Dwarf, offering a muscular arm, helped her down the small step and onto the crunchy ground below.

Her back ached, every part of her body stiff from the many hours of travel, and she rolled her shoulders in a long stretch. Her eyes scanned the area, attempting to pinpoint their location; the spot was at good as any other to set up camp, she decided. Far in the distance, faint between a cover of clouds, she could vaguely make out the contours of the mountain ridge; a thin line of white against the darkening horizon. Across a deep blue sky flecked with golden veins, it would not be long before the last rays of sunlight would be swallowed in the darkness of night.

Unending stretches of green on all sides, Ranel knew the Dwarves had decided to set up camp, not because of their position, but more to spare the animals.

The air was fresh, clear, and only a soft breeze travelled across the ground, whirling up a scent of earth and grass.

The oldest Dwarf met her exploring gaze and she nodded her head in recognition; he let out a low, gruff mutter in response, then turned his attention to the two ponies that were still tied to the wagon. He meticulously ran his hands down the length of one, a white and brown spotted mare, and patted it down from sweat, dust and grime before removing the heavy leather harness. Afterwards he led it to a small tuft of grass, not far from them, and fastened the pony to a wooden stake to spend the night.

It attempted to chew his long hair, but he swatted it off good-naturedly.

A grin tugged at her lips at the sight, but, pressing a hand to her mouth, Ranel glanced away.

Lóni had assisted his mother, who had the youngest Dwarf slung across her shoulder like a sack of potatoes – a squirming, animatedly babbling, sack of potatoes. Watching the small family, Ranel flexed her fingers open and close; she quickly smoothened her skirt, noting the grime with a grimace, and stepped close to the Dwarves. "Can I be of help?" She offered, clasping her hands behind her back.

"If you could–," Nola paused to shush the wriggling girl, then, with a soft sigh, returned her attention to Ranel. "If you don't mind, my dear, could you keep an eye on this little devil while we set up camp?" She agreed immediately, glad to be of some assistance to her hospitable hosts, and allowed herself to be dragged off by the tiny Dwarfling to explore their surroundings.

At first she felt a pang of guilt for not assisting with the camp, but the Dwarves moved with such swift efficiency, she almost felt she would have rather been in the way if she tried anything. With the second pony secured, Frár began work on the fire with his son's help and, only moments later, bright flames licked across the wooden logs and lit the ground. Shadows danced to a tune of cracks and plops.

She crouched down and beckoned Lóna over. The girl latched on to her arm, leaning her cheek against the coarse fabrics of Ranel's shirt and peered up; then she grinned expectantly.

"What is it?"

"This here," she answered, picking a single flower she had spotted just before. The wild herb littered the area, peaking out from between the straws in the dim, waning light, and Ranel's practiced eyes easily spotted them in the grass. "I was hoping you could gather some of these for me?" Lóna eyed the small, light red flower with curiosity; then the Dwarf took it from her hand and turned it over between her own fingers.

"What's it for?" She inquired and breathed in its smell. She made a face, withdrawing quickly to hold the plant at arm's length. "It smells bad!"

"But it tastes good," Ranel said with a laugh. "Can you do it?" When she received a nod in answer, she ruffled the child's soft curls and stood. "Good, though only pick the red ones." She stood for a moment, watching the small figure dash away, but then she turned her eyes westward to the horizon. Other than the soft footfalls of the scrambling Dwarfling and the faint rustles from camp, there were no sounds to be heard of the silence of the night. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she allowed the gentle breeze to brush across her face, grabbing hold of the tresses of her hair.

A peace had fallen over the lands of Gondor, for many years now, and all breathed of calm and quiet.

But still, there was a heaviness to her heart; a heaviness that had crept over her ... With every hushed whisper in the darkest tavern corners; of an old shadow creeping over the lands to the east, the increasing amounts of trolls and orcs attacking settlements and villages. It was only a matter of time before the Gondorians, with their polished and spotless armors, would see battle.

War was brewing, ominous storm clouds in the horizon. The herald of evil and death.

 _It is only a matter of time_ , she thought grimly, a chill running across her skin.

"Ranel?"

Breaking out of her dark thought, she blinked repeated; a warmth travelled up her arm, dispelling the coldness, and she squeezed the hand in her own reassuringly. "Sorry, Lóna, I was just thinking." The little Dwarfling looked at her in puzzlement, then lowered her gaze to the flowers in her grasp. "Did you gather all those? Well done. Shall we go make some tea out of them?"

Hand in hand, they walked back to camp.


	4. Snap

For this (first part of the) chapter I've listened to _Ancient Cry_ , composed by Russ Landau and _Fear not this night_ , featuring Asja – for those interested!

I've been a bit slower than planned with the update but I had a moment of despair, which I have once or twice a week ... curse you, my final thesis. _Curse you!_ I struggled with this chapter, or at least the middle part of it, in what was a far greater challenge than I had first anticipated, but I wanted to post it so we can 'finally' reach Erebor. Though, with all I had planned, I still ended up cutting the chapter in two ... I have said Fíli will make his first appearance in chapter 5 and I'll do my utmost best to keep my word!

Please enjoy a **very** long chapter 4, and feel free to leave a review – each and every one of them are greatly appreciated and are _highly_ motivational!

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter IV: Snap

* * *

In the hunt for flowers they had put quite the distance between themselves and the pulled-up wagon, but still the warmth of the crackling fire mixed with the heat of Spring rolled against her face, as the pair approached the Dwarven group's camp once more. The weaving, twisting flames danced in the dusk, sending a trail of smoke into the air as shadows mingled with the setting nightfall. Blue turned to dark.

The sun had long set over the lands of Rohan to the west.

Both Frár and his wife were preoccupied, but Ranel noticed a pair of dark eyes lingering on her momentarily below bushy eyebrows. _Watching_. She knew the old Dwarf still had his doubts about her, and she did not hold it against him in the slightest; suspiciousness and mistrust were engraved deeply in the very nature of a Dwarf – even though he most likely did not see her as a _real_ threat to his family, his trust in other races only ran so deep.

Lóna released her hand to rush ahead, immediately after colliding with her brother who had walked to meet them, and forced a sharp exhale from the older Dwarf when the small, but remarkably stocky, child wrapped her arms around his middle in a squeeze. With an amused smile, Ranel paused in her step to watch the scene unfold. "Lóni, look! Look what I collected!" The Dwarfling exclaimed eagerly, almost pushing the flowers into his dark beard.

Nearly cross-eyed to see the red flowers presented to him, he then quickly picked up the small girl; flipping her upside down in one fluid motion, pointedly ignoring her delighted squeals and wriggling, he responded through a laugh. "Tell me then, what have you collected?" He asked and looked down onto his sister, near vanishing behind clothes turned upside down, pooling across her reddened cheeks so that only small tufts of hair poked out. It was rough treatment, but the love – and hidden care, with how his calloused hands held on to her middle tightly – was clear in the interaction between the two Dwarf siblings.

"It's–," Lóna paused, a hint of uncertainty to her voice. "I don't know, actually."

The older Dwarf let out a hum in response, the weathered lines of his features still wrinkled in gaiety, before he turned his dark orbs to meet Ranel's gaze. He bowed his head slightly in greeting, careful not to drop the fidgeting bundle in his arms. "Miss Ranel, I hope my sister has not been much trouble? She can be quite the headache if she wills it." He shook the girl, receiving a giggle in return.

"Not at all," Ranel assured him and took a step closer to the two, shaking her head; her fingers laced behind her back as she returned the gesture in kind to greet Lóni. She fell into step at his side as they both moved to join the remaining Dwarves at the fire, her soft footfalls in between his heavy leather boots. "I rarely have the pleasure of such marvelous company. In fact–," Ranel added, attention flickering to the bundle of flowers. "–she was a great help collecting Shy Clovers."

At the name the Dwarf raised an eyebrow in query, his gaze following her own. Though, it was another that put the question to words, voice mumbled, muffled, below the child's layered skirts. "What's a _Shy Clover_?" Lóna asked, attempting to push the fabrics from her face in what seemed to be her only discomfort; in fact, she appeared rather at ease with her current way of transportation, head hovering only a little above the grassy ground.

Ranel pressed a hand to her lips in feigned surprise and let out a gasp. "Have you not heard the story of the Maiden of Flowers and the Golden Knight?" Both Dwarves watched her in bewilderment; one with open wonder, while the other saw through her ruse quickly and hid a smile of his own. Lóna shook her head _no_ vigorously. "My, my ... Perhaps I'd better tell you this tale tonight?" Lóni, turning his attention to the campsite, halted the conversation when he quickly flipped his sister the right way up and placed her on the grass; ruffling her hair, he puffed her along to join the awaiting dwarrowdam.

While he received a look of discontent, Lóna quickly slipped down next to her mother in a tender embrace; the dwarrowdam, running her fingers absently through the smaller Dwarf's unruly and ruffled curls in an attempt to smoothen them, turned green eyes to her son and Ranel. "Don't just stand around, my dear. Come, have a seat," she said and waved her free hand to an empty space around the fire.

Lowering her head in a sign of gratitude, tugging loose strands of hair behind an ear, Ranel fumbled with her belongings.

The Dwarves had cleared a small area and trampled the grass flat, making sure the surrounding greenery would not catch fire overnight, and she slipped into a comfortable position close to the heat. Nola then took notice of the flowers, still tightly grasped between chubby fingers. "What're those, Lóna?" The dwarrowdam asked, taking the stack for closer examination.

Carefully placing her lute on the ground, Ranel dragged the satchel into view and, with her attention remaining on the Dwarves, rummaged through its insides. Lóni took a spot next to his father, both Dwarves still clad in their light leather armor and flanked by heavy axes. Ranel very much doubted she would see either without their weapons throughout the journey. Coarse fabric brushed the tip of her fingers when she pushed a rolled up cover aside, and then she grabbed the item she was looking for. "Shy Clovers," Lóna spoke. "They're hiding in the grass, but look at how many I found."

"Shy Clovers?"

"Yes. Have you not heard the story of the Maiden of Flowers, Amad?" The girl held her chin high and gave her mother a pointed look. Ranel's mouth tilted into a smile at the exchange, pulling out a package from her satchel; she worked her way through the tight knot, fingers easing off the strings and she brushed the wrapping paper aside. "Then you _must_ insist Ranel tells you the story tonight!" A sweet smell welled up from within the satchel. While she had planned to savor the – to her, _very_ pricey – sugar rolls for the long journey, Ranel felt urged to share what scarce supplies she had with the Dwarves.

In return for their hospitality it was very little, but she had nothing else to offer as payment.

"I know it is not much," she spoke slowly, hesitation lacing her voice, but then she put forward the bread. A blush crept over her cheeks, trailing all the way up to her ears and down her neck, when all four Dwarves turned their attention to her. "But I hope you will receive this as a token of my gratitude." Nola carefully placed the clovers to the side, tilting her face slightly in bemusement; then the dwarrowdam accepted the offer with a soft smile, making green eyes come alive in the light of the flames.

A wave of relief washed over Ranel.

"They are sugar rolls baked this very morning," she explained. "–back in Minas Tirith. I have only tried them once myself, but I can say they are truly worth a taste." She did not know much about Dwarven culture or decorum, and her gift could just as easily have been a great insult to her hosts rather than an offering of good will. But the Dwarves gave no indication of displeasure; a quiet sigh of relief left her lips, letting out a breath Ranel did not even know she was holding. "That is, of course, if you like sweet things."

"It is too much, Miss Ranel, there really was no need," Lóni spoke. "But we appreciate your consideration."

She clasped her hands in her lap, fingers intertwined, stalling their fretting travel across the hem of her shirt. "You have done so much for me already. I feel it is too _little_."

"We shall accept your gift," a gruff voice spoke with definiteness and authority, and Ranel looked to the oldest Dwarf of the company from across the flames. Frár held her gaze for a long moment. Then he lowered his head in a bow to show his acceptance; the silver and gold beads, holding his elaborate braids in place, shimmered in the gleam of the fire, standing out against his black hair.

"Thank you," she said with a smile.

Afterwards, Nola had firmly, leaving no room for argument – even though her daughter had attempted such only to be scolded into quiet pouting – decided the sweet breads would be saved until later. In stead the company enjoyed a light dinner comprised of roasted eggs and ham cooked over the fire; they ate in silence, all content with the quiet after a long day of travel. Ranel, borrowed plate resting in her lap, looked out over the unending stretches of darkness around them, bathed only in a silver glow in the rare moments the moon appeared high above.

While the morning sky had been clear, the wind had changed with the arrival of night and in its wake swept a heavy cover of clouds down from the north. The grass rustled in the fresh breeze. Glowing sparks of ash were carried off, disappearing with the wind. It had grown colder, though it posed no challenge against the warmth of Spring. And she had slept outside under far worse conditions and circumstances ... With a grey world her only company and raindrops, never-ending, a heavy pitter-patter until she was soaked to the bone; there had been no dry place to sleep, and the layer of mud so thick her steps took every ounce of strength her body could muster until she could barely stand up straight.

Ranel had travelled throughout the night, crossing the barren Brown Lands, freezing cold and shivering, only to be met with dark greasy surfaces of sullen waters come morning. The Dead Marshes had opened up before her. Ranel drew back from the memory, _the nightmare_ , and huddled closer around herself as an unnatural chill festered within the very marrow of her bones. She shifted closer to the fire. _Five days_... She could barely move when she had finally collapsed on the other side, clothes and skin caked with mud, dirty and grimy, and with the acrid smell of the dead still lingering in the air. _Never again_ , she thought now – words she had repeated back then, again and again in her mind, curled in on herself.

Her hand found the familiar touch of wood, seeking comfort in the presence of her lute and the dread receded.

Chewing absentminded on a piece of meat, Ranel looked away from the darkness only to notice the silence had been replaced with soft murmurs of conversation. Lóni had joined his mother and sister, all three Dwarves speaking in Khuzdul over their finished plates and cups; the only one still eating was Frár, staring ahead into the crackling flames and plate left untouched. Shadows kept his face hidden, veiled from her clandestine gaze behind falling tresses of hair, but ever so often his eyes flashed to the sways of fire. He was clearly deep in thought, quite alike what she had been only moments before, and curiosity sparked within her.

But Ranel did not ask. It was not in her place to do so, nor did she believe the Dwarf would ever share it with her. He shifted, immediately forcing her to redirect her stare elsewhere. He looked like the Dwarves she had seen so many times before. Haunted by the past, the things he had seen and what he had lost. He looked old enough to have been alive back when Smaug attacked. Back when the dragon had killed all who crossed its path to the gold, until the kingdom was swept clean in a wave of fire and death. _Perhaps he was there?_ Her brow furrowed, the grim thought leaving a bad taste of bitterness in her mouth.

So many lives had been lost that day ...

"Ranel?" Lóna asked.

She snapped to attention, prying her eyes from the flames and on to the three Dwarves. "Sorry, I was lost in thought." She laughed faintly, lips tilting into a smile at the small Dwarfling. "Yes?"

The girl was twirling a single flower stalk between her fingers, curled up against her mother with satisfaction and attempted to quell a yawn through great effort. "Won't you tell me the story of the Maiden of Flowers? Amad says I have to sleep soon, but I want to hear it." Ranel hummed lowly in pretended consideration, gaze flickering to Nola, who in return nodded faintly and smiled; at the dwarrowdam's side, Lóni leaned forward to rest his head in his hands, dark orbs never straying from Ranel. He, too, appeared curious. "Pretty please?"

"Very well, then," Ranel responded. Moving slightly to find a better spot on the ground, she pulled her legs close and folded her fingers behind her back. The audience gave her their undivided attention, and her smile widened a notch. "A long, long time ago there was a beautiful and fair maiden. Now, while most stories tell tales of princesses and noble ladies, she was neither. This maiden was born to a farmer and his wife, both poor but so very full of love and care for their only daughter. So she grew up, with tattered dresses and in a place far away from all else except the green fields and thatched roof of her home.

"And her heart was pure and filled with kindness, for she had never seen the cruelty or evil that lay beyond the fields. But then, one day, she woke to greet the morning with a strange streak of adventure flowing through her veins, bidding her to walk past the borders, beyond the world she knew. So the maiden moved past the green fields, further than she had ever gone before, until tall trees rose high above her." Ranel paused, allowing the crackles and pops of firewood to fill the silence. Then, lowering her voice slightly for the next part of the story, she continued. "The forest was dark, the trees wretched and contorted, like dark fingers that reached out towards her ... to drag her into the darkness with them. But the maiden was not scared – she had never felt fear before, and she only watched the forest with curiosity.

" _'Such a strange place,'_ the maiden thought, _'I wonder what lies beyond?'_ – and so she stepped into the darkness of the old forest." Lóna let out a small gasp, clutching onto her mother's skirt, yet with rapt attention only for the story. Running a hand over the dark curls in reassurance, Nola smiled faintly at her daughter but urged Ranel to continue with her free hand. "She walked further and further, until she could no longer see the blue skies or smell the fresh air, and she began to feel something she had never felt before. The maiden was scared. There were small, gleaming eyes between the trees, watching her. Waiting. The maiden could not find her way back, but had lost her way in the dark of the forest and the eyes never stopped following her. _'Please leave me alone,'_ she told the creatures.

" _'Please go away!'_ But they did not listen. And so the fair maiden ran – she ran as fast as her legs could carry her to escape. And now the eyes no longer only watched ... they gave chase. Through bushes and over uprooted trees, in and out and around the thick trunks of the forest. The creatures snapped at her, baring white teeth and howled loudly all around her. And then, what should not happen, happened ... The maiden stumbled and fell and she could not get up ... But _suddenly_ –" She raised an arm, brandishing an invisible weapon. "–a great, golden blade, shining as if it had a light of its own, soared through the air in a blinding flash. A figure stepped between her and the creatures, sword in hand and with such great power her attackers fled back into the forest without as much as a fight! And that is how the maiden first met the Golden Knight," she said quickly, pausing to catch her breath and watch her audience.

She remained quiet.

"And what happened then?" Lóna inquired. "Stories have to end with them living happily ever after."

"Now, who says the story is finished?" With the hint of a smile, Ranel leaned back onto her hands to give the child a mischievous look. Soft grass, swaying in the light breeze, brushed the tips of her fingers and grazed her knuckles. No, there was still much more to the story, but she had not missed the concealed yawns and droopy eyes of the smallest Dwarf. "It is far from over, but alas ... the hour has grown late, I fear. Perhaps we should save the rest of the story for some other time?" Ranel directed the last question to the dwarrowdam.

The Dwarfling gaped, gaze flickering from Ranel to her mother.

"Can't we finish the story? Amad?" She pleaded with a whine to her voice, small fingers tugging at the dwarrowdam's dress in eager coaxing. "Just a bit more, I promise I'll be good tomorrow. Please?"

"I believe Ranel is right," Nola said, ignoring the whimper that followed her answer. "It is late. And you will be awfully grumpy tomorrow if you don't get any sleep."

"I can just sleep in the wagon tomorrow," the Dwarfling interjected.

"No." With a sigh, the older Dwarf came to her feet and pulled her daughter up with her. Lóna did her utmost to drag her feet, growing as heavy as possible until she was pratically dragged across the ground, but her mother appeared unfazed. " _No_ ," she repeated, tone growing cross. "One more word about this and you won't get to hear the rest of the story later, either. So be good and go sleep."

When the two Dwarves disappeared inside the wagon a silence settled around the campfire.

Ranel shifted and swallowed. "I do not hope my story caused your mother any trouble," she said, looking up to meet Lóni's eyes.

"None," he said kindly. "Lóna knows when no really does mean no. Though, I must admit, I was quite keen on hearing the story until the end as well."

She let out a laugh in response, a smile making its way across her features and she lowered her voice slightly, assuring the Dwarfling could not hear what came next. "I feel I must be honest, Master Lóni – I have only just come up with the story to accompany the flowers. They are but regular red clovers–," she said, but, with a wry grin, added, "–though great for tea, which was my very purpose to have them picked in the first place."

"I had a sneaking suspicion it was so. Nonetheless, I look forward to hearing how the maiden came to earn her title!"

It was not long after the youngest had been tucked away for sleep, before the rest of the company moved to follow suit; while Ranel had briefly considered offering to keep watch, she was well aware that her suggestion would be respectfully, but firmly, dismissed. So, in stead, she had rummaged through the satchel, pulled out her cheaply bought cover – with more holes than not – and settled in a spot near the warmth of the fire.

Quickly declining the dwarrowdam, who had asked if she would sleep with her and Lóna inside the wagon, Ranel had bid her hosts a good night.

The Dwarves would likely feel more at ease with her out in the open, where they could keep an eye on her, and she much preferred to spend her evening below the stars. Having spent the entire day inside the cramped space, she could use a breath of fresh air. Ranel lay on her side, with the fabric pulled tightly up to her ears, as she stared into the dancing flames and listened to the last bustles of camp. Frár and his son were to take turns keeping guard, and the younger Dwarf crept into a comfortable spot with his cape wrapped closely around his stocky frame; a gleam, a golden light against the darkness, travelled across the metal of his weapon, rested not far from his hands.

She moved, attempting to get a sharp rock out of her back, and then willed her eyes close, feeling eyelashes flutter against her skin. Shadows danced across her eyelids, and heat rolled against her face as it carried a smell of ash and fire. Ranel did not know when she had been lulled to sleep, to the soft crackles of fire and the whispers of grass in the gentle breeze, but sleep she did.

And when morning came once more, it was to the chirping of birds and with a sky changing from dark to crimson and orange. At first she merely enjoyed her comfortable position, eyes trained on the patches of golden-white clouds illuminated by the glowing sphere rising into the horizon; the sun climbed higher and higher into the sky, banishing the quiet of night, until it peaked out above the green fields of Anórien.

The campfire had slowed, neglected in the early hours of morning, until only embers smoldered within the ashen pile. The Dwarven company was still quiet and yet to rise, but she knew Frár was up, silently watching her from across the burnt wood, in the spot he had spent most of the night on guard duty. Vigilantly protecting his family in their sleep. And he knew she was awake.

Ranel shifted once more, pushing off from the ground into a seated position.

She looked towards the Dwarf, their eyes meeting, and she nodded her head in a respectful greeting. "Good morning, Mister Frár."

"Good morning, lass," he greeted gruffly and sent a puff off smoke out from a long pipe, nestled between chapped lips. It tipped up and down as he spoke, and she fleetingly watched the smoke ring until it dispersed into nothingness. Rolling her shoulders, feeling her joints and muscles ache from the rough and hard ground, she drew her cover aside to stretch fully. Her fingers ran through unruly hair and she felt knots tighten against her pulls; contract and stretch as she attempted to loosen the worst tangles. _I should cut it soon,_ she thought with a frown. "Slept well?" Frár asked, beady eyes following the movement of her hands.

"Quite well, thank you," she answered with a smile, finally abandoning the feeble attempt at salvaging her hair and allowed her hands to rest in her lap. "I usually do not dare light a fire when I travel alone, so I enjoyed the warmth it provided." He nodded slowly in response, face drawn into contemplative folds and lines. "I take it the night was without any disturbances?"

"No soul in sight," he said, turning to look out across the grasslands with thick brows furrowed. "Tell me, lass, how do you stay clear of dangers?"

"I hide," she said plainly, mouth tilting into a smile and she shrugged her shoulders lightly. "If I can get away with it, otherwise I run as quickly as I can."

"With no way to defend yourself?" He asked, an incredulous wonder to his tone. "That is quite the risk to take. Especially for a woman."

She remained quiet for a moment, once more watching the winding trails of smoke. "I much prefer not to think of what would happen _if_ I ever were to get caught, and so far I have managed without ever truly facing the perils of the road. Not to mention I know the paths, both the frequented and the hidden ones, far better than most around these parts." Their gazes locked, hers speaking of a resolute belief in her own abilities. Then she bowed her head slightly, breaking the eye contact behind loose strands of hair. "Not to mention there are far scarier things in this world than what you can find on the road ..."

The Dwarf did not respond except for a low puff of pipe weed.

The light rapidly turned brighter, and Ranel moved to repack her belongings; she did not imagine the Dwarves planned to linger for much longer, but would travel with the early light of morning. She stood, pulling the cover up with her, and shook it to get rid of the gathered dust and dirt; then she folded it quickly, until it was compact enough to fit inside her satchel. Her gaze trailed over the camp, noting Lóni was barely visible below a woolen blanket and dark red hood pulled down across his face. The young Dwarf was snoring soundly. "I assume we will continue on towards Rohan?" She asked, once more looking away from the slumbering form.

"Aye," Frár responded curtly.

Ranel hummed in thought; she pictured the long road and knew the most demanding stretch lay ahead – if, of course, they managed to avoid any bandits or, _worse_ , stray orc packs from the mountains. They would have to pull the wagon through not only the Entwash, but the fast-flowing waters of the river Anduin; The Great River at this time of year overflowing its shores in freezing cold, melted snow from the mountains. But there was no other path to travel, at least not if they wished for the Dwarves' belongings and livelihood to make it to Erebor safely. Or the ponies, for that matter.

"That is most likely for the best," she said quietly, to herself more than anything.

* * *

The group had, with the last streaks of night vanishing into the far west beyond the horizon, emptied camp and firmly strapped the rested ponies to the wagon; Ranel stayed inside, below the white cloth, alongside the dwarrowdam and her daughter. Once more they kept a swift pace down the dusty road in an attempt to reach the Lonely Mountain and to reunite the Dwarven company with their kin. The days quickly passed and blurred into one for Ranel. They would travel all day without rest, only stopping when the sunlight dimmed to dark and they could no longer see the road ahead; Frár and Lóni would keep watch, the fire would burn to embers, and they would rise in the morning to do it all over again.

Three days after Ranel had set out from Minas Tirith, had they finally passed the slow-winding Mering Stream, its waters shallow and clear, and crossed the borders between Gondor and Rohan. The landscape changed very little at first, and the green fields continued on all sides. But the slopes turned steep and soon hills stole away their previous unhindered view of their surroundings; cliffs, jagged and razor-edged, protruded from the ground and bathed the bending road in broken shadows beneath the sun.

Both Frár and Lóni grew more attentive, sharp-eyed, and their hands never strayed far from the hilts of their axes; nor did they allow the youngest Dwarf to venture far from camp, neither alone nor accompanied. While Anórien saw its share of patrols, keeping the small villages under protection, the Eastfold – so far from the great golden halls of Meduseld – was entrusted to its own and seldom the hooves of the Rohirrim trampled across the grasslands.

While Ranel had wandered to and from Rohan many times and never encountered any real dangers, she knew her reassurances would fall on deaf ears; though she travelled with the group, she was at no time truly a real part it – they were Dwarves and she nothing but an outsider, someone they would part with once they reached Erebor. Though, she did find a warmth in the constant attention given by Lóna, and Lóni kept her company in the evenings to exchange stories, and he never failed to bring a smile to her face. Ranel told him of her travels and of the places she had seen, and he described the halls of _Ered Luin_ ; their magnificence, with pillars so tall they vanished into the darkness above, carved from the very stones of the mountain.

Ranel could not blame Frár for protecting his children. So she allowed them their cautiousness, quietly watching with a shake of her head, all the while knowing well they did not trust the realm of Men.

They would find no dangers in Rohan.

And her prediction came true. No harm had come to the group, nor had they encountered any other travelers on their journey, and two days after crossing the Mering Stream and the road had turned north, they once more found themselves on the shores of a river early one morning. The ponies had been reluctant in crossing the shallow waters of the Entwash until Frár had jumped from the wagon, walking alongside the pair through the slow-winding current. And not long after both wagon, ponies and a very soaked Dwarf found themselves on the other side; they allowed the animals a small rest, and Lóni led them down for a drink at the river bank before they would continue their journey through Rohan.

Grabbing the chance to stretch her legs, Ranel welcomed a breath of fresh air against her face and the sun, high in a cloudless sky that renewed her spirits. She inhaled deeply. Shielding her gaze with a hand she peered out over the waters; the still surface reflected the sunlight in a glimmering brightness, almost as if white diamonds were strewn across the river in between the stones and pebbles. The river, narrow not far in the distance, had opened up and became wide at the crossing; a mirror of azure waters rivaling the heavens above.

Patches of trees dotted the green landscape along the Entwash, and far ahead she could make out the contoured crags of Emyn Muil, fencing in the Eastemnet from the Dead Marshes and the Brown Lands of Rhovanion. A black smudge against the blue skies. Song filled the clear air and a pair of birds, shadowed beneath the sun, soared high in a dance of twists and turns until they vanished from sight. Her eyes followed them for a moment, but a grey haze in the distance, creeping closer over the jagged peaks to the east, caught her attention; leaden ominous clouds. She frowned, tracking the wind's current direction.

The rain would not bother them through the Eastemnet, though Ranel feared they would catch up to the storm on the banks of the Anduin.

But the Dwarves spared no time on the beauty of the river Onodló, nor appeared to mind – or notice – the gathering clouds, and the wagon set in motion once more.

Ranel had worried with good reason, and less than a day's journey from The Great River the storm hit them in a flurry of heavy raindrops, beating down on the group relentlessly and without pause. Droplets trickled down, soaking through the cloth, and the dwarrowdam fussed around in an attempt to protect the crates and food. A flash of lightning carved through the darkness, and a rumble reverberated throughout the narrow space. Howling winds blew onto them sharply from the side, so forceful the wagon rattled and slid in the deep mud several times, until the Dwarves finally chose to ride out the storm.

The wagon was pulled some distance off the road until it was shielded from the downpour beneath a rocky outcrop; the ponies, exhausted and with water dripping from their long manes, were guided into a narrow space between two stone. With the wagon providing some cover, the drenched animals would get some comfort and protection from the gale winds and rain. They made no attempts to start a fire, but in stead huddled in on themselves and with both cloaks and hoods drawn tight. Nola had at first planned to spend the night inside the wagon with the youngest Dwarf, but Frár appeared tense and would not allow his family out of sight. Ranel was of the same mind as the old Dwarf, with a limited vision of their surroundings and this close to the wilds it would be far safer to stick together – even if it meant they'd be drenched to the bone before morning.

And so, with lightning sending wretched shadows over the steep rock face and rain hammering down, the small company found little rest that night.

Fingers clutching the Lebethron wood tightly, cloak pulled close to her chest to shield the lute from the thunderstorm, Ranel kept her head low; every inch of her body was soaked through, hair clammy and clung to her cheeks while small drops, first icy cold to the touch until her skin numbed, ran down her face and fell into the folds of her clothes. She pulled her legs close and rested her back against a large boulder, finding little consolation from the gnawing wind.

The rainfall was so dense it deafened all other sounds until she could hear nothing else but the rhythmic drum of droplets against the rock.

A world of grey enveloped the group and the clouds darkened further as nightfall came. While the Dwarves found some warmth in each other, sitting close together to shelter Lóna in the middle, Ranel tried to find some rest despite her shivering body. She tugged the hood further down over her face, blowing heat into her hand to still the trembles, and then she forced her eyes close.

The storm raged throughout the night and only with the first rays of morning light, piercing the heavy cover of clouds, the rain began to still. Ranel had barely slept more than a few fretful moments, snapping awake at each thunderous rumble and flash of light, and the weather had put a chill in her body. With hands barely functioning, she pulled away her tattered cloak and allowed a view of their surroundings – something she had not done the night before, where she could barely see her own two feet in the dark. The outcrop consisted of several tall, sharp walls of stone, curving alongside the path, creating several small dents like the one they had sought cover beneath.

Both ponies, looking awfully downtrodden, stood closest to the rockside and looked as drenched as she felt; but they still munched on what little patches of grass that cluttered the ground around them. A few pine trees grew from the crevices and in between the large boulders. Streaks of light broke the clouds, golden behind the grey skies, while the ground was filled with puddles of muddy rainwater.

She staggered to her feet, a numbness still holding claim to her body and she did her utmost to make no sound. Clammy clothes clung to her skin – but the lute had survived the storm and she sighed in relief. She ran a hand through her damp hair and glanced towards the Dwarves; with their dark cloaks and short figures, bathed in shadows, they almost became one with the rocks around them.

Ranel, catching the bemused glance Lóni gave her beneath the rim of his hood, gestured out towards the rocky landscape in a half-shrug.

At first he appeared conflicted, contemplating whether he should let her wander off or not, but in the end merely granted her a nod; with a faint smile at the Dwarf, she slung the lute across her back, shoes sinking down into the mud as she trudged off from the group in an attempt to find some privacy. The rain had come to an end, filling the air with a humid smell of earth, but the area was still covered in only a dim light and it made her walk slow and uneasy. Slipping several times on the smooth stones or in the dirt, she rounded a collection of rocks and the grasslands unfurled before her.

The ground sloped downwards, and she could see the meandering road – a brown string weaved through green – continue, further until the landscape changed from rolling hills and fields to woods; first a few trees, cropping up along the path, but soon they grew denser until she could no longer see beneath the mesh of branches. The border of Rohan lay before them and the true wilderness stretched ahead.

She wrung her hair, feeling tresses tangle between her fingers and water travel down her palms and wrists.

A branch snapped behind her.


	5. Blades Clashing

Exams and sickness over and done!

Thank you for the reviews to the previous chapters, _please_ do keep it up as it is highly motivational. My theory is the time between updates often is inversely proportional with the amount of reviews, though merely a theory so far. We should test it! The music for this chapter has in some part been with inspiration from "Warcraft" by Ramin Djawadi and "Iron Poetry" by Ivan Torrent.

I usually don't add chapter warnings, mostly since I don't write things that leads to such uses, not to mention I feel it spoils the story more than anything, but uh ... **Warning** : poorly written violence and assault. (It's my first ever attempt at anything remotely resembling combat so hopefully I shall not blind my poor readers or bore them into a coma, but if so I apologize beforehand! Also, let me know if you would even consider it something in the need of a warning because I'm quite uncertain if it does.)

And please review, I'm dead excited (and incredibly nerve-wrecking scared) about what you all think of my "action" scenes, where half was deleted halfway through writing. Because feck my life. Right? Right! And this chapter grew longer and longer because I had promised Fíli in this chapter ... Can't say I don't keep promises even though we hit more than 9000 words!

So you all better enjoy!

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter V: Blades Clashing

* * *

Her entire being froze at the snapped branch, back and shoulders rigid as her breath hitched in her throat. Something – some _one_ – was behind her. And it was not one of the Dwarves, for she would certainly have heard them. With ears strained for any sound, an alertness seeping into every muscle of her body and with undivided, rapt attention on her surroundings, Ranel slowly, inconspicuously pulled her fingers from her damp tresses.

Heart hammering rapidly in her chest, she knew well her first real indication of movement would urge the watcher into responsive measures. Time felt as if stilled, the world holding its breath in waiting. Straightening to her full height, slowly, carefully, her right hand flexed and hovered closer to the small knife at her belt. Her mind was in turmoil, an internal conflict raging between fight or flight.

Could she run?

Would she even make it if she tried?

But before she could come to a decision it was made for her. With footfalls heavy against the grass piercing through the quiet, Ranel made a grab for the blade and spun to face her attacker, feelings her fingers come so close – _scraping_ against the rough hilt, almost able to grasp it fully – when a body collided with her own. Fear surged through her. The massive bulk pulled her out of balance and sent her flying to the ground; her head met with the sharp side of a stone, protruding from the grass, and a white-blinding wave of pain carved through her body.

Her ears rang, piercingly loud ripples breaking off any coherent thought.

Ranel would have screamed if not for the fist simultaneously connecting with her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs. She let out a garbled moan of agony, curling in on herself but with fingers still trembling, fumbling, to grab hold of her small weapon. The attacker – a man, her mind registered feebly – sat with a leg on either side of her body, straddling her down on the rain-soaked ground. Her vision swam, attempting to regain focus in between ragged breaths.

A sharp blade hovered inches from her widening eyes, close enough to carve the thin skin beneath if she dared move.

Her searching fingers stilled.

"Told 'em I saw one ... Yes ..." The man muttered, more to himself than anything before his dark beady eyes readjusted to her face. His free hand stroked tangles of hair from her face, brushing his fingers over her cheek and further down her neck in a strange, sickening display of care that spoke about entirely different motives; yellowy teeth bared with his smirk, tongue running across his lower lip. "Pretty lil' lass, yes, yes." Ranel could do nothing but wordlessly stare at the wild man, terror-stricken and disoriented, but not without a familiar sense of survival's fury boiling deep within. Her nostrils flared.

His hair and beard untamed, feral like the rest of his large frame, and together they hid most of his features; but the eyes shone through, filled with unrestrained emotion, all of which Ranel preferred not to understand any more than she already did. She knew well how an encounter such as this would end. Both his face and tattered clothes were dirty with grime and dark patches, looking more than anything like dried blood.

From his hands he held the long, thin dagger poised barely an inch from her eye; blotches of brownish-red rust coated its edge. The shine held her gaze transfixed.

Ranel's breathing had stilled, evened, but with the honed blade too close she dared not make a move.

"You know," the bandit spoke suddenly to her, voice a gruff hoarseness, and she forcefully pried her attention from the weapon onto him. "I saw a girl make off from the camp. They didn't believe me yet here you are, aren't you? All to myself," he cooed. Her brow knotted together, in confusion and pain, but her heart sank at his words. _He is not alone_ , she thought, hollow dread welling up inside. There would be no help to come from Dwarven axes. While his companions had only seen the quiet camp, this man had spotted her in the early rays of light and followed.

"I–I don't have much," Ranel pleaded. "Some coins, but that's it."

He leered at her words, adding further pressure down on her bruising body. "If I wanted valuables don't you think I would've stuck with your little Dwarf friends?" Rough, calloused fingers cupped her chin forcefully. She flinched, attempting to shy away from the touch and knew well the meaning behind his words. "You obviously don't have a penny to your name, lassy."

"Please, can't you just let me go?" She asked, though sure her call would fall on deaf ears. Her hand slipped, inched, further down the side of her muddied shirt. The man's own blade was still balanced just above her face, the tip denting the skin, but if he planned to carry his actions through he would eventually have to move it. "I promise not to tell–"

He cut her words short when he smashed his free hand into her face, sending another spike of pain through her head. "Shut your mouth," he hissed. Head once more meeting stone, a warmth spread beneath her, oozing into her hair. The taste of metal filled her mouth, trickling down from her spit lip. Vision but a blur until finally everything settled into darkness, Ranel went limp under the bandit and felt his taut muscles slacken; the weight on her lessening as he shifted. But even though her battered body pulled her into unconsciousness, her mind – her fear, her _anger_ – willed her awake. She kept her eyes close, heart pounding against her ribcage but regained a quiet breathing.

Her fingers slid around the knife handle.

Then, finally, the press against her cheek lessened and the blade was pulled from its threatening position.

Her eyes shot open.

The wild man barely had time to let out an inaudible yelp before Ranel plunged her knife into his chest with a sickening _thud_. She felt the small blade slip beneath, grated against bones until his flesh met the shaft and settled. He stared at her, wide-eyed, but the minstrel had eyes for nothing else except the blooming flower of crimson, spreading from around her curled fingers. "I told you – I _asked_ you to let me go," she spoke, voice but a whisper. "Why couldn't you?"

His own dagger dropped from his grip, clanking against the stones hidden beneath green patches of grass. Ranel raised her gaze as she retracted the bloodied weapon; his lips moved, trembled with unspoken words until, eventually, he stilled and life slipped from his eyes. Surprise marred his features even in death. The body fell, yet she remained frozen where she knelt, hands clutched around the knife and with shoulders shaking.

It took Ranel several moments with nothing but her jagged breathing carving through the deadly silence of the Eastemnet before she finally willed her trembling to cease. First she carefully touched her injuries to scope out the severity, wincing when the flat of her hand met matted, bloodied hair and the small gash beneath. By good fortune the cut did not run deep and the bleeding had already stilled significantly. It still stung her like an orc's whip and Ranel removed her hand swiftly.

Her split lip would likewise heal – the bruises would fade with time.

Ranel staggered back onto her feet, head spinning, and she swallowed quickly to suppress the bitter bile in the back of her throat. Her weaponless hand patted down the lute that, despite the encounter, had remained strapped to her back through it all. Besides her head, it was the instrument that had taken the blunt of her fall and a great worry filled her.

Fingers running across the wood in an attempt to find any possible damages, she released a sigh of relief and tears sprung to her eye. "Thank the Valar," she whispered. "You are unscathed." Closing her eyes briefly, battling back sobs of frustration, Ranel then turned towards the dead bandit with newfound calm. With ears and flickering gaze strained for the man's companions, she fastened the knife to her belt once more; her hand was smeared red and she wiped it frantically against the skirt until only a few paling smudges remained.

He had fallen head first into the tall grass, shielding her from seeing his lifeless – _dead_ – eyes. She lowered herself to one knee and rather unceremoniously dug through his belongings. Ranel worked swiftly, having no plans to still be around when his accomplishes surely would come looking for their missing member, but neither would she leave without something to make up for her lost possessions still back at the camp. Her satchel had been left within the wagon during the night's downpour.

But as long as she had her lute nothing else truly mattered.

When finished, Ranel had managed to fish out a few items, mostly without value that she would leave yet also some coins of silver and gold, as well as a small box containing flint and steel. With one last, long look at the body she stood. Ahead, into the valley below the outcrop, the long stretch of grassland would give no shelter or places to hide if the bandits would make chase. It was a long shot, but well worth trying to reach the trees; first light scatterings that soon grew denser around the banks of the Anduin.

Ranel stepped to the edge of the slope, glancing to search for secure footings in her climb downwards.

Her body ached in pain, head throbbing and more than anything she wished to curl up and not move for days, but she also knew the men would not take kindly to their dead companion. The tall grass and stones were slippery beneath her feet and fingers, making her descent agonizingly slow, but long before the exhaustion and her injures overcame her it was an entirely different thought that made the minstrel pause with hesitation. She glanced back to where she had first come from, to the outcropping walls of grey stone, standing tall and dark against the clouded sky and the early light of morning.

Ranel tenderly bit her bottom lip, attentively avoiding the fresh wound, and frowned. She should run, she had planned to – she always _had_ when confronted with dangers. Even if there was still a chance the Dwarves were alive; even if they had shown hospitality and kindness far exceeding anything she had expected or was worthy of; provided her with food, company and shelter.

What could she do anyways?

With one last look out over the plains, Ranel, against all her self-taught wisdom and life lessons, against common sense, moved quietly back towards the camp. Her feet fell heavy, like lead strapped to her legs to pull her down, but she forcefully pushed forward; with no clear plan forming in her mind, she decided to first get a clear grasp of the Dwarves' situation, for running straight into the fray would undoubtedly lead to nothing good. She paused at the first outcrop, pressing her frame into the shadows and shrugged off her lute. Ranel would not take any further chances with her prized possession, and instead slipped it into a narrow opening between two steep, razor-sharp edges.

Her hand lingered briefly over the Lebethron wood, so dark it fell into one with the shadow, and it would be out of sight for anyone who would not know where to look. "I will be back," she promised softly and, once more, gripped the knife. Though this time with resolution not stemming from sheer will to survive nor fear, but foolhardy boldness. Ranel swallowed.

Even with every gliding step brimming with caution, making slow but quiet progress through the rocky landscape, it was not long before voices trailed up from ahead. Loud, rough. Laughter. Men – Ranel could discern at least two. The white cloth-roof of the wagon appeared, peeking up over saw-toothed rocks no taller than Ranel, the last fence between the minstrel and the bandits. She stopped to listen. Crouching behind a large boulder, back against the raised cliff wall and the rocks ahead; with her hold on the knife so tight her knuckles were white, ghostly with the skin pulled thin over bone. It had been enough against her sole adversary, but not against many ... not if the Dwarves could not aid her fight.

She leaned forward, attempting to steal a quick look, but retreated back fast when a moving shadow cast its way over the ground before her.

"Where is that bastard?" One grumbled loudly, apparently pacing back and forth with an air of impatience.

The shadow danced in step.

There was a rustle, of metal clanking loudly, before another answered. "Probably took a tumble off the outcrop. So drunk most of the time he can't even figure out what's his left and right foot," the second man said with a snigger. Intently listening to their conversation, hoping to figure out their numbers, Ranel struggled to come up with a plan. At least she needed to know for certain if the Dwarves were even _alive_.

" _That_ , or he's brushing lips with a tree ..." The first retorted sourly, clearly displeased with the situation. _Two_ , _so far,_ Ranel thought, but remained still in the shadows. Perhaps if one came looking for their companion she could pick them off one at a time. She had her doubts it could be done as quietly as with the first. "Oi, shorty, tell me again! You sure there wasn't a girl with you?"

She stiffened.

At first the man was spared no response.

A scuffle ensued, soft moaning and then, quietly, a familiar voice. "It was only us–" _Lóni!_ "–and why would we travel with a _human_ in our company, anyhow? _Menu shirumund_!" He spat the added insult in Khuzdul, and, even though the men could not understand the language, the intention behind was crystal clear. The unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn from its scabbard reverberated throughout the rock landscape, hitching her breath; panicky eyes scanned the ground and Ranel quickly picked up a large stone, barely fitting into her hand.

She could not let them cut him down. Not without a fight.

"You're so short you probably won't notice a difference if I separate your head from your shoulders, Dwarf," the man growled. "Shall we put it to the test?"

Aiming to throw the diversion as far from her hiding place as possible, cold sweat coating her skin in a struggle against sore, aching muscles, she pulled back her arm only to be interrupted by a third voice. " _Barron_ ," it said, tone a harsh warning. "Go fetch Shepley instead."

"I'm not his damned handler! Either he finds his way back himself or he can be eaten by a warg for all I care."

"At least make yourself useful and help your brother with the wagon!" The third man barked at Barron.

A string of curses welled up, but apparently the imminent threat to Lóni had passed. For now. However, Ranel knew she could not wait indefinitely; the bandits would likely rid themselves of witnesses once they were finished with any valuables. She silently pushed off from the boulder, head kept low, and followed the low stone wall that circled the small clearing. She would not approach the opening completely, afraid one of the men would suddenly come bolting out to find their missing member – ... _Shepley_ , she thought – and run directly into her.

The wagon was close now.

She could hear the rustling, the scrambles of crates and blacksmithing tools, from within. _Three_ , she counted, _two preoccupied with the wagon, but where's the last?_ Attempting to imagine the third bandit's likely position, despite her jumbled mind from her previous beatings, she inched closer to the edge for a proper look. If she was close to the wagon then the Dwarves, if they had not moved much from their huddled sleeping place from the night, would be directly between the wagon and the cliff wall opposite her.

Surely they were, Ranel assured herself encouragingly. The bandits had likely taken them by surprise before the group had fully roused from sleep, and used the dimness to their advantage to avoid a fight. At least if they had any sense in them they would have aimed to avoid a clash with Dwarves. And if so, then the third man was likely watching that position – but facing the wagon or the cliff? With a deep breath, she decided to take the risk.

She twisted the knife shaft in her palm, settling it well in her grip, and then she slowly stretched to peer out over the rock.

The Valar had not then decided to forsake her. Shielded partly by the wagon, Ranel had a clear view of the small clearing and, with that, the people; the third bandit was, leisurely resting a short sword in his lap and perched on a crate, guarding the Dwarves with his back to his own companions. Frár looked a little worse for wear, a gash across his forehead dripping blood into his beard and another across his shoulder, but he was conscious and protecting both Lóna and Nola with his large frame. Neither mother nor daughter appeared harmed, though the young Dwarfling was crying softly into the Dwarrowdam's dress.

Lóni looked like he had received a beating similar to Ranel's, his head bowed with his chin resting against his chest. The Dwarf was crouched a few yards from the rest of his family, most likely the only one fully awake when they had attacked. For a moment Ranel hoped he would look up to see her, but then she scanned the surrounding ground for the Dwarves' axes.

Ranel spotted the first, thrown aside and out of reach, laying in the grass near the restless ponies trotting back and forth. A screech erupted from the wagon, forcing her to duck down quickly when the third man glanced back, and before she could locate the second axe. She cursed silently. "Get that thing out of my face," Barron drawled lowly, though they shortly after returned to work. Her heart hammered so loudly in her chest she feared they would hear her. If she could get close, swiftly, to the unaccompanied man – render him harmless before the others became aware of her presence, then surely Frár and Lóni could handle the remaining two.

It was as good a plan as any.

She snuck closer to the opening, deciding the simplest approach most effective. Although outright sprinting at an armed man, twice her size no less, bordered on stupidity, her battered mind could not think of any other method. Just maybe Ranel would catch him off guard. Just maybe. The ground at the gap, where they had pulled the wagon in through the evening before, consisted of uprooted earth and downtrodden grass, soaked to mud from the heavy rainfall and gave way to the green grasslands beyond. She could still turn around. There was still time.

 _It will be fine. It will be fine._ Ranel repeated, prayed, in her mind.

She glanced out one final time. No one had moved.

The back-flip of the wagon faced away from her and she moved quickly, feet sinking into and out of the mud with small, hopefully muffled, squelches. Having edged a bit closer, hunched in on herself behind one of the front wheels, there was now nothing but open space between herself and her target. She inhaled sharply. Now or never; her grip tightened.

The front flap of the cloth was pulled aside.

Ranel came face to face with one of the two men inside.

Her first reaction was to scream, but that was quickly – and, more importantly, _silently_ – quenched by her second; she lunged at him with the blade, though from the angle of her attack and the distance between them, she only managed to graze his chin before he could recoil with a shout. She scurried backwards, which the injured bandit used to advance further, now brandishing a dagger very similar to the one she had encountered earlier in the hands of her first assailant. Though this one looked _much_ sharper. The second man jumped out from the back of the wagon.

She held up her knife in response, a small trail of blood running down its edge.

A cry, a mixture of surprise and pain, tore through the strained tension, rippling across the rock walls and alerted Ranel to the third man's fate. Her gaze danced from the approaching pair to where the sound came from; Frár had, unarmed but with a seething vengeance, overpowered the lone bandit and was now showering him in a flurry of punches, falling repeatedly until the Dwarf's knuckles split open.

She saw Lóni bolt towards the axe just before she caught movement from the corner of an eye. Ranel barely managed to dive to the ground. The blade swished past her ear, howling, so close she could hear it carve through the air where her head had been a moment before. Mud splashed onto her face, partially blinding her and made her eyes water; she scrambled to regain a foothold when a well-placed kick made contact with her already bruising gut, knocking out all her air. She fell flat in convulsions, gasping for breath, struggling to keep her grip on her only weapon.

"Go take care of those bloody Dwarves! I'll handle this."

Spitting out blood and mud, Ranel attempted to crawl away only to be yanked forcefully up by the hair.

"And I'm goin' to enjoy it," he hissed into her ear.

"I would rather you didn't," she said honestly, coming face to face with him. "Also ..." Ranel coughed, tasting copper with a grimace. "One against two Dwarves was a very _poor_ choice."

He deemed her unworthy of an answer except for a scowl; then he raised his dagger to strike. Ranel pressed her eyes shut, only to find the grasp on her hair loosen in company to a hollow, deep _thunk_. She slowly, hesitantly, looked. Dislodging the sharp side of his axe from the man's back was Frár, gaze clouded in darkened shadows until the weapon was yanked free and he could turn his attention to her. Her shoulders sagged in almost palpable relief. "You all right, lass?" He questioned while kneeling in front of her.

"I'll heal." She brushed the back of her hand across her bleeding lip, sniffling, and it came away with streaks of brown and red. "You know," Ranel added, arching a brow at the old Dwarf pointedly. "This is why I usually just run away. Much less painful." He snorted before wrapping a muscular arm around her middle and pulled her, unexpectedly gentle, to her feet. "Remind me to get my lute ... I hid it before my, well, reckless attempt at a rescue."

Leaning against the smaller, but stocky frame Ranel hobbled towards the other Dwarves; her gaze, still blurry from the blows and mud, only briefly flickered over the last two men. Both were dead. Cut down. A smile snuck onto her lips when she noticed none of her companions had sustained further injuries and she nodded her head briefly at Nola, their eyes meeting. "Miss Ranel!" Lóni hurried to her side, dragging the previously occupied crate with him, and with his father's help managed her into the seat just in time for her legs to cave in. "Thank Mahal you are safe."

"I am glad you – _all of you_ are, as well." Pulling off a glove, revealing knotty thick fingers, Frár brushed aside the tangled, bloody mess that was her hair and examined the cut beneath. Ranel quietly let him and instead, exhaustedly nursing the smaller wounds to her face tenderly, spoke to the younger Dwarf. "How did they ...?" She stumbled for words. "Did they come while you were asleep?"

"Yes," Lóni said with a frown. "I was about to tend the ponies when they sprung me from behind. They must've crept up on us in the dark. If they hadn't gotten the upper hand through surprise we could've taken them, but not with Mother and Lóna present." He looked ashamed; it had been his guard when they attacked, and clearly he felt responsible.

"They sounded like they knew this area quite well," she said. "They have probably been preying on travelers passing through here for years."

Ranel flinched, making a face, as Frár ran a single finger down the cut. "It won't need to be stitched up, though without cleaning it thoroughly it might fester," he said slowly, nodding briskly to his son to fetch water. Lóni returned immediately after, one hand carrying a bucket of water and the other grasping white linen cloths. They worked with practiced ease and with barely a word spoken; first rinsing out the worst grime, the drying blood-flakes and mud, digging out small pebbles embedded in her skin that stung painfully, then they proceeded to bandage the wound carefully, yet tightly. "We will redo it once we cross the Anduin," Frár said, taking a step back.

She turned slightly on the crate to see him, hand flickering over the newly-bandaged injury. "Thank you."

"No," Frár interjected. She blinked, puzzled, as he bowed in gratitude at her. "Thank _you_ for coming back to help."

A blush flushed her features, hands tightly clasped and unclasped, and she lowered her gaze abashed. "I do not deserve your gratitude, Mister Frár. While I could not throw away your kindness and hospitality as if it meant nothing, admittedly I had considered running away. It fills me with remorse thinking of what might have then happened to you all."

"But you did not run," he said, holding firm to his belief with a stubbornness only a Dwarf could display. Chewing her lip, she inclined her head slightly in quiet response; she was not one to argue. At least not with someone that could cut down a full grown man in one swing. He clasped her shoulder, the gesture full of strength and spoke of his immense gratitude.

His previous wariness had abated completely with her last actions.

* * *

The group abandoned camp quickly after.

Ranel had, with Lóni aiding her with armed assistance next to her wobbled steps past rock crevices, retrieved her lute once more from its hiding place; cuddling it tightly, securely at her chest like a mother would a child, she dozed off into a fretful, unruly sleep in the wagon. A heavy silence fell over the Dwarven company as the ponies led them down the sloped field, wagon swaying through the mud until it bumpled back onto the dusty path through The Wold.

Lóna had not spoken a single word, but let out small sobs and whimpers ever so often that would snap Ranel awake.

With barely any sleep the night before and her aching body attempting recovery, she drifted off immediately after. Head lowered until her forehead rested against her knees, pulled close, lute rested in the small hollow between shoulder and chin. It was a dreamless rest, a darkness only broken by fleeting flashes of red streaks carving across her eyelids; Ranel tried to shut out the muffled screams beating against the insides of her head, something she was sure would be repeated in nightmares for months to come.

Ranel woke some hours later, mind a groggy mesh, noticing the previous light through the cloth cover had faded. She rubbed the flat of her palm against her eyes, feeling the prickling stings of a headache behind her brow. Grey shadows, gnarled and twisted with spots of light, flickered above.

They had reached the small forest that flanked the bends of The Great River.

The road twisted through the close standing trees, filling the air with an earthy smell and birdsong, greeting the morning light, echoed through the heavy treetops. Hills sloped, winding up and down, forcing the ponies to a slowed pace that did not fall well with the Dwarves. The scare was still nested deep within the company – with good reason – and Ranel could several times hear hushed, wary snippets of conversation from the front of the wagon. Her grip tightened around her lute, gaze flickering to the Dwarrowdam with a small smile.

Nola had remained by her daughter's side throughout the day's journey, whispering soft murmurs of reassurance in Khuzdul. The Dwarf returned her smile, briefly, then her attention was once more on the little one resting in her lap, small hands clasped to the folds of a blanket draped close. Ranel watched Lóna silently, eyes downcast in compassion.

She knew the best remedy would be time ...

At first it was nothing but a faint sound of water in the distance, but soon the chuckling turned to a steady roar that filled the air.

The road forked, bending north-west and the sloped hills and trees opened up around them onto an even stretch of land running alongside the Anduin. They had pulled the wagon over to take in the sight and to discuss their continued journey. Ranel clambered out of the wagon, every little part of her body complaining with the slightest of moves, but a suffocating oppression had taken hold of her and she wanted – _needed_ – air. Dusting off her crumbled clothes, flicking away caked mud, she edged close to the river.

The current was rapid, turbulent, and the deep waters rolled and churned in a spray of foaming waves, crashing into the unstoppable mass that was the stream. Enclosed by rock on both sides, it carved its way through the terrain, and there was a several feet drop from where they stood to the waters below. There would be no way up again if one was to fall.

There were only few crossings that would allow safe passage across the rapid waters, Ranel knew, having made her way through the coldness several times before. A few minor ones could be traversed by foot or horseback, but it would be a foolish risk to attempt it with a heavy-packed wagon. The old bridges, from a time long forgotten when trade was flourishing between Gondor and Rohan and the northern kingdoms, had crumbled from misuse until nothing but large pillars and white blocks of rock jutted out from the deep waters.

She peered ahead, over the diamond-glittering river, and saw it open up and grow broader in the distance. With open plains on both sides, a speck of flatlands between the surrounding forests.

And so they were left to seek out the Fords of the Undeeps, pressing them further north and, as consequence, would bring them uncomfortably close to the darkness of Mirkwood forest when they would finally pass into The Brown Lands. The Dwarves hoped to reach a crossing before nightfall and to then allow the ponies rest on the other shore. Frár had hastily told her, before climbing back onto the front seat, that he would re-work her bandages then.

It did not take more than a few hours before the group came to the first wider part of the river.

Here the current was slow and the waters shallow enough for them to cross by foot.

Ranel, having left her satchel and lute inside, jumped down from the wagon. The sun had risen beyond its highest peak, yet there was still plenty of time before it would sink behind the tree-line to the west. "Miss Ranel," Lóni cleared his throat and ran a hand through his braided, dark beard as he strode to her side. "Would it not be better if you stayed within the wagon?" He inquired, brow furrowed in concern with his eyes flickering upwards to meet her gaze and injuries.

"A little water will not hurt me, and it will ease the burden on the ponies." She gave a small smile, gesturing towards her clothes flecked with dirt and grime – _and blood_ , Ranel noted glumly – as her nose crinkled in open distaste. "Not to mention I could use a good washing-up while I am at it." He shook his head, but remained otherwise quiet and without retorts.

She fell into pace at his side.

Ahead, Frár was wading through the waters near the riverbank, testing the footing that could otherwise be treacherous on unsuspecting pony hooves. The younger Dwarf, absently, patted the closest pony with a gloved hand and received a pleased neigh in response. She slipped around the animals, pausing opposite Lóni, planning to help the harnessed pair safely across. "Did you know the Undeeps are part of the borders of Rohan?" Ranel asked, motioning out over the ford. "Gifted to Eorl the Young. From here onwards we will travel through unclaimed territory."

"I did not," Lóni said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully and with attention trained on his father, now almost at the other shore.

Ranel leaned against the leather harness, feeling the pony's warmth seep through her sleeve as her fingers flitted through its coarse mane. "After Eorl came to the rescue of Cirion in a great battle between orcs and the Dúnedain, it was given to him and his descendants. The battle took place just north-west of here," she said and nodded to the open plains.

"When was this?"

Her face scrunched up in thought. "Some four hundred years ago."

Ranel was about to elaborate when Frár strode back to them, his sturdy frame carving through the water with ease despite his heavy armor. Droplets fell from his soaked clothes, but the Dwarf appeared unconcerned, instead pointing out towards a line of rocks poking out in between white water lilies. "We will follow the stones," he said, eyes lingering on the minstrel momentarily. He did not question her presence. "I will take up the rear."

Lóni guided the ponies out, hooves kicking up pebbles until they splashed through the shallows; ears lowered flat against their heads in nervous skittishness, steps uncertain but loyally following the Dwarf's gentle guidances across the ford. The wagon creaked behind Ranel, and she felt the stones beneath her feet slip and skid while the water level rose with each step. Her muscles were tense, grip tight on the pony's harness for support. The water reached just above her knees when they made it halfway, but the clammy wetness reached further up as it soaked through her skirt.

The ponies pushed forward, now eagerly eyeing dry land, the wheels of the wagon creaking in protest with every jagged move, yet they soon found themselves on the other river bank without incident. Heaving for breath. Dripping wet. A small puddle gathered at her feet as Ranel stretched, suppressing a wince, and allowed Lóni to pull the two animals further from the river towards the closest patch of trees for cover.

Then she followed, shoes sloshing and eyes running over their surroundings.

There was less grass, only a few plots of yellowy-dry strips bending in the breeze. The forest was scarce and was replaced with open, wide plains stretching far beyond the horizon. It was not hard to imagine how The Brown Lands came into its name. A desolate desert with arid moors. _Noman-lands._ Ranel passed a small tuft of long strands of dried grass and an idea sprung to mind; she stooped down, quickly pulling off a couple of handfuls before running to catch up with the wagon.

They moved the wagon in between the trees, hidden from the flatlands and possible preying eyes, that could otherwise see them from quite a distance. Ranel left the gathered grass near one of the large wheels and then assisted Lóni with the ponies, leading them some fifty yards down to a quiet bent of the river. As the animals drank hungrily, she perched herself on a stone close to the still waters and cupped her hands to pool a bit of water; quickly scrubbing off the worst grime from her face, careful not to brush over the split lip.

She could feel Lóni's gaze on her, but she remained silent and in stead moved on to the worst dirt-cakes matted into her brown hair. She scowled when her hands pulled a tangle hard. "I feared you would not survive," he said some moments later, coming to stand next to her on the bank and leaned against his large axe for support. "Not when the fourth man left to get you. What happened?"

Ranel lifted her shoulder lightly in a shrug, never prying her eyes off of the blue mirroring surface.

"I killed him," she responded, voice barely audible beyond a whisper, fingers weaving through knots.

"He would have killed you otherwise." His voice sounded much like his father's then, firm, as he reassured her of her actions being righteous. "And not before he'd do much _worse_ to you. The world has merely been rid of nothing more than the worst type of scum; and if you had not my mother – my _sister_ – would perhaps not have been with us now. No, the only one responsible for all of this is me ..." The Dwarf picked up a stone, turning it over in his hand before throwing it out over the river.

They both watched it vanish with a _plop_ , sending ripples out until they stilled into nothing.

"It was too dark to see anything," Ranel said, giving him a small smile. Then she returned to her full height. She wiped her hands against her shirt unconcerned. "They knew what they were doing and took you by surprise. Come now, let's return back before the ponies drain the Anduin," she added, nudging his boot with her own foot.

He chuckled lowly.

They took a pony each, dragging them back with some struggle, but as they followed the tree line away from the river they picked up the pace. Bushes grew thick in between oak and hassel, casting shadows on their path until a fresh cool settled. Her wet clothes clung to her skin, making her hair stand on end, but Ranel shifted closer to the animal at her side to seek comfort from its large form. Branches and leaves rustled under their feet, weaving their way around trees until the camp came into view – a small, inconspicuous fire was crackling over newly gathered firewood, unpacked bedrolls and blankets and a few bowls spread out.

Nola walked to meet them, fresh bandages in her arms and a soft smile of surfacing recovery from the day's harshness playing at her lips. "Let us have a look at that cut, my dear," she said. While Lóni took the pony off her hands, leading the animals into the undergrowth for the night, Ranel fell into place next to the Dwarrowdam on the way back to the wagon.

Before being ushered into a spot near the flames, Ranel hurriedly picked up the grass and dropped it into her lap as she sat.

Nola voiced her wonder, but Ranel merely smiled. "You'll see."

While the Dwarrowdam with gentle hands rinsed the long brown tresses for mud and blood, clearing up around the cut, the minstrel sorted through the straws. If they were either too short or broken, she would discard them on the ground, until finally satisfied with an even stash between her hands. She fiddled with a free string from her belt, pulling it out; she separated the straws in two, one large and one smaller group, then took the larger, curved them down the middle and, fingers holding tight, twisted the bent end. Ranel tied the string around, finishing off with a tight knot and two loose string-ends hanging down.

A coolness spread around her wound, numbing but not unpleasant. Apparently the Dwarrowdam had applied a dark green herbal medicine that made the air smell of thyme and nettles. "Against inflammation," Nola explained before adding another layer. New linen was pressed against the back of her head, pushing her hair flat down her back. Ranel picked up the second grass pile, nudging uneven straws into place; wrapping them around just below the knot like one would a scarf – once, twice. She fastened it with the loose string. "It's a doll?" The Dwarf asked, able to make out the contours of arms, legs and a head.

"Yes," Ranel said, pulling the string up to the first knot where she secured it once more, ending the entire thing in a bow nested at the straw-man's neck. "I thought Lóna might like it." Holding up the handmade figure for the Dwarrowdam to see, knowing well it was a cheap toy but nonetheless content, Ranel smiled slightly. "What do you think?"

"I am sure she will love it, Ranel, thank you." Nola stood. "I will see if she is awake."

The small doll made the Dwarfling smile for the first time that day, much to Ranel's pleasure, and she watched the little girl sit by the fire playing with the new toy all evening. She had even put her mother to work making a dress from old scraps of red cloth. Ranel smiled so much her bruised face nearly hurt in return. Clothes drying in the warmth that spread around the camp, a quietude fell – though the wary undertone never truly disappeared, and it was clear both Frár and Lóni would not close an eye even for a moment that night beneath the canopy of trees.

Before they settled for sleep Ranel finally finished the story of the Maiden of Flowers and the Golden Knight. She told them how the small flowers, shy of strangers, would only ever show themselves to those with a pure heart. How that was the reason the Maiden could win in the competition against the Goblin King and, by doing so, could rescue her beloved from his imprisonment within the crystal castle made of ice.

And, of course, how the pair lived _happily ever after._

* * *

Their travel through The Brown Lands was uneventful, much to everyone's relief.

It took almost a week with nothing but open fields, dull brownness stretching into the horizon and with warm winds, and the ever looming presence of Mirkwood forest as a guidepost for their route. But then the narrow, dusty path met another, much larger – the Old Forest Road, _Men-i-Naugrim_ , Dwarf-road. Less than a day's travel from the mouth of the Long Lake Ranel was sitting inside the wagon, legs curled and playing with Lóna, when voices erupted from the front. In Khuzdul.

Another group of Dwarves, likewise heading for a new home in the Lonely Mountain, had met their small company.

Their wagon pulled into a pace along the rest of the convoy and, suddenly, the previous stillness was filled with the trampling of hooves, booming voices filled with laughter and the rushing waters of the Celduin running alongside them, carrying melted snow from Ered Mithrin. Lóna had climbed out through the front, sitting with her father, and Nola was likewise leaning out; Ranel leaned back against the wagon's side, closing her eyes to listen to the unfamiliar language passed around on the other side of the cloth cover.

They really were getting close to Erebor. Closer to ...

Her heart beat loudly, a lump stuck in her throat as she swallowed.

She did not hold it against the Dwarves for eagerly seeking the company of their own people, but the quiet it left Ranel in invited unwelcome thoughts. Thoughts she had shut out throughout their long journey; but now there was no escape, nothing else to keep herself preoccupied with but the memories. The lute felt heavy in her hands. "We are back," she whispered.

The high spirits, courtesy of the Dwarves – from the Blue Mountains, Nola explained to Ranel as she popped back inside to fetch food to share – continued throughout the day. The minstrel, even from inside the wagon, knew exactly when the Lonely Mountain came into view, for a silence swept all talk and laughter into soundlessness. Closing her eyes she could imagine it. A grand, mirror-still lake of golden fire spreading out before them, and in the distance, faint beyond a misty trail covering the plains, the solitary peak would gleam in the sunlight.

With hooves clacking and wheels creaking, they continued, but now the air was filled with reverence, hints of mourning and sadness stemming from a past hard forgotten, but also of joyous pride for a kingdom restored. Every single Dwarf in the company would give their all; sweat, blood and tears to restore Erebor's greatness to what it once was before the dragon – before Smaug the _Terrible_.

Some hours passed, when their wagon pulled to an early stop.

Nola sank bank into a spot across from Ranel, grasping the young woman's hands with her own. "The others told us they are only letting Dwarves enter Erebor for the time being, and that other races require special permission from the nobility to be granted entrance. But, then again, I was thinking you were heading to Dale to meet your," she paused, hands squeezing slightly tighter in reassurance. "–family."

Ranel smiled, shifted in her seat. "Dale was my destination, yes, so please. Fear not for letting me off here. I am sure the road is quite safe with this many travelers streaming back to the city. I am truly grateful for everything you and your family have done for me these past weeks. I would not have been halfway through Rohan if not for you."

"You have not only brought joy and laughter to my children, but you have also saved _us_."

Ducking her head, she blushed.

"Allow me now to invite you to visit our new home," Nola continued. "Once the mountain opens."

"It would be a pleasure, thank you. I accept."

The Dwarrowdam surprised her further, when Ranel was pulled into a crushing embrace and then Nola kissed her forehead softly, a silent farewell as a smile warmed her features. "Until next we meet, my dear child." Gathering her few belongings in her arms, the pair slipped out of the wagon and a blinding light filled Ranel's vision; she slipped the bag over her shoulder, letting it hang loosely, and fastened the lute on its usual place. She was ready to wander alone once more. Ranel made sure to keep her back to the Long Lake, afraid of what she might see out over the waters.

Her eyes fell on the remaining Dwarves, approaching her from the front.

The smallest ran ahead, doll in hand, quickly wrapping her small arms around the minstrel's legs. Ranel crouched, meeting face to face, and was swept into another hug. " _Adad_ said you wouldn't come with us?" The little Dwarfling questioned with a sniffle. A wetness soaked into Ranel's shirt, alerting her to the tears shed by the small figure nested below her shoulders.

"I _cannot_ ," she responded, pressing a soft kiss into the child's curls. "I am not a Dwarf." She combed back the hair with her hand to see the face underneath. "But you are always welcome to visit me in Dale." Ranel looked up to Lóna's family, gently releasing the child as she returned to her feet. The small Dwarf wrapped her fingers around Ranel's skirt. "I will not stay for long, well – no more than a _few_ years, perhaps. I just need to ... see how _things_ are. Then I will return to the road, but I promise to inform you before my departure."

Both Frár and Lóni bowed, showing her great respect with the formal Dwarven partings. "Until next we meet, Miss Ranel," the younger said, a smile beneath his braided beard. "Until our travels cross again."

"I wish you all the best." She nodded her head in return to both. "Until then."

While she had been surprised repeatedly by the Dwarves' immeasurable shows of generosity, arguing everything she knew about the race, what the oldest Dwarf did then moved her beyond anything. He stepped close, shrugging off the dark green cloak from his back, smoothened with his large hands and draped it over her shoulders. " _Tan menu selek lanun naman_ ," he spoke, fastening the small golden clasp around her neck. "Until next we meet, we thank you."

Her fingers marveled across the woolen fabric, over the embroidered runes running along the hem and hood. "T–thank you, Mister Frár."

"The runes are prayers to Mahal for a safe journey. You will need it more than we, now that we have found _home_ ," he said.

Ranel gave Lóna a final hug before the little one was helped back into the wagon; the ponies clip-clopped away, leaving her behind at the northern banks of the lake; Erebor towering against the blue skies ahead and with Dale, standing out through the small mountain slope to the west. She raised her hand in farewell, waiting until long after the wagon was but a tiny white dot on the road. She breathed deeply, slipping the hood over her head to hide her eyes, brimming with tears threatening to fall.

Frár's last word echoed in her mind, over and over.

The Dwarves had finally been reunited with their kin.

She readjusted her satchel, rolled her shoulders. Ranel then turned to the remains of Lake-town with newfound purpose. It took a moment for her eyes to make out the city in the distance; the clear waters were shimmering below the spring sun except for a black smudge, the contours of houses, mostly broken and toppled over; a single, tall tower stood in the abandoned city's center, the bell hanging ajar as if the ropes had snapped. A pain spiked through her arm, her nails digging into her skin with such pressure they drew blood.

Cold tears trailed her cheeks.

The fishing town was in ruins, destroyed in an ancient creature's wrath only equaled by nature's own forces of destruction.

Then she saw it. Broken and defeated, protruding through Lake-town's devastation lay the once majestic beast dead. Sinew and bones. Smaug. _Felled_. The last great fire-breathing dragon of the Third Age. Left to decay with the buildings he had destroyed, until he would finally become one with the deep waters and nothing but stories would remain. Ranel pried her gaze away from the sight, lowering her eyes as tears fell beyond her control.

How long she stood there, alone on the road between Erebor and Dale, she did not know.

Minutes or hours? It mattered not in her moment of grief.

Hooves reached her ears, but Ranel took them as travelers or merchants and ignored them; even when one rider broke from the group, coming closer, then to a halt and could be no more than a few yards from her. "If you consider going out to fish for gems from the beast's belly, I would suggest you did not, lad." A voice spoke. Ranel snapped back to attention, flinching at the sudden sound as if only now registrering the company. "I hear his blood is like acid on any who dare touch the waters."

She quickly wiped her face from tears, squaring her shoulders and raised her voice to speak in return. "It was not my intention." Ranel turned to take in the rider before her; her eyes flashed across the Dwarf's gold-trimmed armor, the deep blue vest and cloak of fine quality and the hermelin-fur lining its edges. "– _My_ _Lord_ ," she added, a slight tilt to her head.

He appeared taken aback, not expecting a woman, but masked his astonishment quickly as he brushed dark brown locks from his face. Watching him a moment more her look flickered to the second rider, waiting a small distance away, but dressed in similar fashion. Both were armed, and the blond one had several rabbits tied to his pony's satchel. His eyes met hers briefly, but then she glanced away and shrank beneath the hood. "Well," the noble Dwarf cleared his throat. "My apologies for the disturbance, Miss, though you should still heed my warning. No one should wish to see that dragon up close!"

He spurred his mount, falling into place next to the other.

Ranel watched the pair disappear in a cloud of dust before turning to look back over the lake.


	6. In the Open

Most of the chapter was deleted (twice), so I apologize if it feels sub-par. I'm just amazed I had the self-control to actually _write_ anything rather than smashing the computer into smithereens or throwing a foot through the screen.

Quick **lore or story-notes** that I feel worth sharing in relation to the story:

\- The Battle of Five Armies is actually also inspired by the book version, even though I in chapter 1 said I would mostly follow the movies. I 'lied', so to speak, but basically same-same.

\- Even though I quite like Tauriel's character, I am not including her in this story because, even though I tried fitting her in, I just couldn't place her within the plot. So yeah, basically means the entire Battle of the Five Armies were without neither her nor Legolas, since he wouldn't have otherwise left Mirkwood.

Thanks for the reviews!

To _M (guest)_ : I think I'll stay clear off warnings, since, as you said as well, either a general note or none at all would probably work just as well. I'm sorry you found my note to come off as begging for reviews, because that was certainly not my intention, though nonetheless I'll be careful for it not to come off as such in the future!

To _obsessed reader_ _(guest)_ : If you enjoyed the quick, fleeting meeting with Fíli and Kíli I'm sure you'll like this chapter. Nothing _but_ Fíli! His next meeting with Ranel (or first, since we're now watching it from his perspective) will be in chapter 7 unfortunately, but I hope you'll like it!

Enjoy a rather short chapter 6!

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter VI: In the Open

* * *

Life had returned within the great halls of Erebor.

Dwarves from every corner of Middle-earth gathered beneath the mountain, eager to rebuild and restore the kingdom to its previous repute. To bring the stories of old back to life once more. The forges burned bright in a sweltering heat; hammers upon anvils resonated in the depths, as blacksmiths worked without rest; broken pillars and chambers were cleared, built anew yet better by the skilled hands of the stoneworkers. Greater. The seat of the King, no longer left vacant with the returned leader of Durin's Folk, was the shining beacon of hope for the Dwarves. A new, bright future.

But the kingdom had not been retaken without sacrifice.

Dáin Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills, had, upon receiving word of the retaking of Erebor and the death of Smaug, marched with an army of some five hundred Dwarves to assist his cousin in the kingdom's defenses. Five hundred heavily armed and most skilled veterans, having seen war before, arrived on the eastern slopes at the gates of Erebor. Many of those lost their lives at the mouth of the valley before the great kingdom, where the armies of Men, Elves and Dwarves clashed against the vast host of orcs and wargs. It had been a mesh of screams and howls, blood and death; shields splintered and swords clashed, beat down on and carved through flesh.

On two spurs before the gates of Erebor they created a choke-point, sloped down into the valley, and the defenders had the upper hand against the first wave of attackers, but soon they were forced back by the superior numbers beating down on them. Like an endless wave that swept them away with the tide, bringing nothing but death; their enemies unrelenting, crazed and blood-thirsty, with nothing but thoughts to maim and kill. It was in these moments, when the battle turned for the worse, that Thorin Oakenshield's rallying charge was cut off, unprotected from the rest of his army and hard beset.

His attack crumbled and the mesh of battle degenerated into chaos.

While the King under the Mountain fought with great courage and strength, worthy of all tales later retelling the battle, felling many a foe until the ground was soaked in the dark blood of orcs, he soon collapsed from his injures. His nephews, princes from the House of Durin, stood by their fallen uncle, willingly forfeiting their own lives to defend their king with both shield and body. They fought beyond breaking, until their minds saw naught but crimson red, the clouding of their vision, and they could no longer grasp their weapons.

Until blades shattered into hundreds of fragments.

When the bowstring snapped, when he could do nothing but watch his brother fall.

When he screamed in despair. Called the name of the one dearest to him.

When darkness soon claimed him ...

Fíli bolted upright in the bed, skin covered in a glistening glaze of cold sweat, the nightmare – the _memory_ – still vivid even with his eyes wide open. His breathing shallow, jagged, he stared into the darkness of the room and tried to suppress the unwelcome images. Sparks of pain, searing through his flesh, travelled down his left arm; clenching and unclenching his fingers in an attempt to regain control, he could feel the involuntary convulsions fight his mind. He should feel lucky, _happy_ , to be alive, is what the healers told him.

But the Dwarf knew better. Never again would he be able to wield his dual swords with the same fluency as he used to. The healers had struggled relentlessly in an attempt to save the Line of Durin, only succeeding with the assistance of Tharkûn and his magic. Only by a hair's breadth. The recovery had been slow and exhaustingly painful, and while most wounds faded into nothing but white scars, emblems of battle and valor, some never truly left. A blade had carved through tendons to the bone, nearly severing his arm from the rest of his body and left Fíli with an unquenchable feeling of being crippled. Incomplete.

He had stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother, both willing to give every last drop of blood and their lives to protect Thorin. To protect their King. Fíli had never imagined survival against the overwhelming onslaught; a worthy death, killed in battle. But the Valar appeared to have other plans. Throwing aside the covers, knowing well no sleep would come to him after the dream, he ran a calloused hand across the scarred tissue; an unbroken line trailing from the collarbone to the scapular. Rough beneath his fingers.

Picking up a discarded robe, he quickly shrugged it on and moved over the cool floor to the large, intricately carved fireplace, cut straight from the very rocks of the mountain. Soon flames licked over the wood, orange and yellow, making contorted shadows dance across the walls. He knelt a moment longer, gaze darkened in thought as heat seeped into his freezing body.

He felt no regret. He truly did not. They had managed to protect their uncle until the bitter end, yet he could not help but wish his injuries would not have been so _permanent_. Never had he admitted it openly to his family, confined in them, because he felt too ashamed. Without a doubt Kíli knew his brother's thoughts without having to ask, but Fíli never could quite put his feelings into words and remained silent.

His fingers found the small silver bead clasped to one of his braids, touch running across the indentations and he paused.

 _Sigin-tarâg_ , Longbeards. The House of Durin.

How could he ever expect to rule – to bear the burden of others upon his shoulders – if he could not even handle his own? Raised under the stern guardianship of Thorin Oakenshield, a leader who had protected his people through the harsh perils of exile, Fíli knew such weakness had no place within the heart of a Crown prince.

Fíli squared his shoulders with newfound resolution, suppressing the haunted calls of the night, and the Dwarf stepped close to the large desk near the fire. He had declined a separate bedchamber and study, more than satisfied with having everything together, and as such required less time travelling to and from rooms. Taking a seat he eyed the bleary pile of parchment, all awaiting his signature and seal. Most were mundane tasks, yet he had been taught to never leave his name on something he did not truly, and wholeheartedly, agree to. It would not be a first if a greedy merchant or nobility would attempt such trickery to steal a name for their own uses.

He pulled the first parchment closer, features settling into boredom as his eyes flickered down the words.

The royal quarters, where both he and his brother had been assigned chambers, were not without some natural light; narrow channels had been dug through the rock, allowing the first rays of morning to filter down until the room was bathed in a dim, golden glow. Some hours passed and the sun had risen, yet the pile seemed no closer to finished upon closer inspection. Food supplies; trade to and from the mountain; wishes and requests for an audience with one or all members of royalty; minor disagreements or arguments in the need of settlement, yet all believing it worthy of their king's time.

While Fíli's sleep was riddled with nightmares, he was not sure Thorin ever had the time to even _sleep_.

At that thought, Fíli declined most requests on behalf of his uncle.

Regarding the parchments with distaste, he rubbed the brink of his nose to release a building tension, slowly weighing his mind down and breaking his concentration. Though he should not have worried about the threatening headache, for something far more distracting decided in that moment to barge in, slamming the door open with such force that the massive wood was knocked into the wall. "Rise and shine, brother, it is time to greet the morning!" The brown haired Dwarf, with a grin and both hands placed firmly to his hips, looked expectantly to the bed.

"You know," Fíli said slowly, giving the other Dwarf a chance to orientate himself. A half-smile played at his lips, even though he well knew his brother's intention had been to startle him in his sleep. "Unlike _you_ , _I_ have far too much work on my hands to have the luxury to sleep in late." He folded his fingers against the smooth surface of the table, before adding in hindsight. "In fact I am fairly certain so do _you_."

Kíli walked over, and it was then Fíli noticed the younger Dwarf's attire. The usual tunic, made of fine cloths of silk and cotton, had been replaced with one of sturdier materials, sticking out beneath light plates of armor suited for travel. A quiver was fastened to his back, bow slung across his shoulder. "Anyways," the brown haired Dwarf said, halting in front of the desk and with both hands clasped behind his back. "You will have no work today."

"No?" Fíli raised an eyebrow in inquiry, now knowing his brother was planning something.

"No. Today you will go hunting with me. I've been told there are plenty of rabbits on the slopes southeast of the mountain."

Carefully placing his ink-tipped pen to the side, the oldest Dwarf turned his full attention to the other with a sigh and a glare only their uncle – and mother – could rival. "I will not go hunting, Kíli. While you may disregard your own duties and get away with it, I cannot. Uncle cannot do everything on his own, and I _am_ heir to the throne."

Kíli made a face, a mixture of disbelief and resignation, before letting out a long-drawn sigh. "You have cooped yourself up in here for far too long. When was the last time you stepped foot outside the mountain? Wait–" He held up his hand. "Don't answer that. _A month_. That's how long. Even uncle will have to agree that you cannot continue like this, and if mother was here she would tie you to a pony and drag you out herself. Not to mention Thorin has more counselors than he knows the names of, so _yes_ , you _are_ coming with me."

"Let us pretend I agree with you," Fíli said, thoughtfully mulling over his brother's words that, admittedly, sounded quite agreeable in comparison to the pile of paperwork. It truly had been a long time since he had last breathed the fresh, clear mountain air or felt the wind against his face. He always accepted his responsibilities without complaints, yet he could not pretend he _enjoyed_ them. "How exactly do you expect said counselors will take to me just abandoning today's work?"

"I know for a fact that all you are supposed to do today is greet visiting nobility and, of course, their beautiful, kind-hearted and wise _daughters,_ " Kíli said with a grin.

The brothers watched each other quietly for a moment, locked in a battle of wills they both knew who would lose.

* * *

With the prospect of spending his day having his ears talked off by ladies of fine bearings and of noble birth, Fíli's struggles against his brother were less than half-hearted. He had quickly dressed in similar sturdy clothes, resistant against both the weather, rocks and branches, but also much more comfortable in comparison to the stuffy, tailored items they were forced to wear at court. Strapping on a belt, he looked to his swords with hesitation before settling with only one blade, that he then sheathed. He could feel Kíli's observant, dissatisfied gaze – yet neither spoke of his decision.

Afterwards Fíli hid his usual knifes, the familiar weight calming, grabbed a cloak and walked from his chambers. Torches illuminated their path, bathing the corridor in a warmth foreign to the mountain's natural darkness; large embroidered tapestries, depicting heroic deeds of old, hung from the walls and smothered their booted steps, otherwise reverberating throughout the quietude. The path met another ahead, and the opening was flanked by two heavily armored guards stationed for the princes' protection. On duty, they did not greet nor speak to the pair.

In the early hours of morning the upper corridors of the mountain were without people; only the forges, burning sustained even through the night, and the servants' quarters came alive with the sun's first climb across the horizon. A few maids scuttled along, handling baskets of laundry like a warrior would a sword, only to slip out of sight when Fíli and Kíli passed.

The corridors and hallways had opened up into the great kingdom of Erebor; a massive open area leading from the great entrance to the very back of the mountain, where the royal chambers were positioned, connected every maze-like part of the mountain with one another; narrow bridges spanned across the dark depths, staircases ran along the stones; some wide enough for twenty Dwarves to walk side by side, and others so small one could imagine only a child could stand without falling off its edges. Countless tunnels and passages were dug through the mountain, leading to cellars and halls, even enormous chambers such as the old throne room of Thrór and several, equally large ones, holding all the reclaimed treasures of the great Dwarven kingdom.

Hammers echoed in the darkness, clanks and rattles.

Shouts in the distance, the first signs of the grand marketplaces awakening and the opening of shops.

"I do feel bad for leaving uncle with the noble ladies," the oldest Dwarf said quietly as they followed the stairs further down. The air was cold, fresh, and smelled like earth and rock. Of home. The very materials Dwarves were created from, and the life beneath the mountain made Fíli's sacrifices worthwhile. _This_ was what he had fought for. He smiled to himself.

"Oh, I always think he looks like he enjoys the company," Kíli mused.

They exchanged a glance, then broke out into barks of laughter at the thought. Thorin, walking the hallways with a trail of giggling, chatty Dwarrowdams feigning shyness while showing excess amounts of skin, always looked like he much preferred to be back in the Elvenking Thranduil's dungeons. Though, unfortunately for both Kíli and Fíli, their uncle was soon pushing two hundred years of age and, as such, was the less attractive choice for marriage. No, the chances at the throne were much higher if the fair maidens were to catch the eye of a prince.

"I am not sure he agrees," he responded, shaking his head lightly.

Their walk through the great hall was slowed, halted as they greeted the Dwarves in their path; talking off trade, family, and sick relatives, all the while getting a feel for the on-goings of the people of Erebor and making their presence – their genuine care and interest – known. The marketplace was an open space, filled with carts and tables, selling everything from precious gems and jewelry, weapons; tiny butter knives and longswords; fine fabrics, fur and pelts; to poultry, meat, baked goods, and sweets.

While their new roles and responsibilities within court were less than welcome and remarkably boring, they both enjoyed time with the workers – something they had done already back in their old home in Ered Luin. An old Dwarrowdam, with a remarkably large beard white as newly fallen snow, gifted them both freshly baked bread rolls from her shop upon hearing of their hunting plans. Another gave them two large meat pies, making their mouths water from just the smell – the pies would most likely not survive the entire trip to the grassy plains.

After Fíli's recovery, when he could finally move from his sickbed, the brothers had, slowly at first, explored the Lonely Mountain's winding corridors and great halls, the majestic statues and golden vaults; with hundreds upon thousands gems, rubies, sapphires, even entire arches coated in quartz and topaz rivalling the night skies. Erebor was much grander than their old home in the Blue Mountains, but their speechless astonishment was not without sorrow. The dragon's destruction was not to be overlooked.

The first months after the retaking, when the Lonely Mountain was yet without life, they had often come across small chambers. Here, huddled together, lay their fallen brethren; trapped and without escape, until all they could do was wait for a slow death to claim them. With the assistance of the Iron Hills' soldiers, they could finally put their kin to rest within the stones; there they would wait, in a deep slumber much alike Durin the Deathless' in the ancient times, until Mahal would reawaken the Dwarves to restore the world.

But now, with the slow passing of time, caravans flocked to Erebor and liveliness returned.

Fíli and Kíli stepped through an arched gate, smelling the change on the air. It became fresh, clear but warm, carrying a scent of the blooming flowers of May. The large gates, where the dragon had hauled his great body through in a vengeful fury, were undergoing repairs. The great stone doors were opened, allowing a steady flow of workers to and from the mountain; they brought with them smooth, squared stones that were used to reinforce the walls and gateway, or for the battlements high above the ground level. Two new bastions were starting to take shape, fortifying the defenses of the weakest part of the mountain.

A masonry foreman barked orders over the loud, beating noises of hammers and chisels. Winches lifted thin, even slabs of dark metal in between shouts, until disappearing into a narrow passage connecting the gate's inner and outer wall walks. Before Smaug's ransacking of the Lonely Mountain, the gate had mainly consisted of large stone boulders and with the natural rocks as protection; but now iron and steel between stone would strengthen the entrance, as well as giving archers a better, safer, vantage point against an attacking force. Once the final details would be added to the stonework, several wind-lances and trebuchets was to be placed on the towers and walls.

Neither dragon nor army would be allowed entrance to the mountain.

It did not take long before a stable boy, breathing heavily and with cheeks flushed at the sight of the princes, had fetched two ponies for their use.

One lipped at Fíli's shoulder, almost taking a braid with it, but he pushed the pony aside benignly to instead rub its mane, running his fingers absently through the coarse hairs. Once the animals were saddled and ready for departure, packed with a few apples for the ponies and two waterskins each, the princes quickly mounted and made their way through the opened gate. His gaze turned upwards, taking in the changes so very different from the makeshift barricade they had made eight months earlier. The wall was thick, and any beast of old hoping to barge through could just as well slam directly into the mountain.

A blinding light shimmered through the opening ahead, piercing the dimness until the pair broke out into the open. The blue morning sky was painted with streaks of orange and pale red; cloudless and unending, stretching over the still, mirroring waters of the Long Lake as if heaven and earth came into one. In the distance, on the other bank a faint line of green could be discerned by keen eyes. Mirkwood forest.

Simple wooden scaffolds lined the rock walls, where several Dwarves were carving elaborate runes and figures no bigger than a hand, or working on a pair of tall statues, looming down on any that dared enter the mountain. The ponies' hooves clopped against the stone bridge, bringing the brothers further away from the busily working craftsmen.

To the southwest, on one of the mountain ridges that ran like spurs through the landscape, was the outlying slope Ravenhill; the Dwarves of Erebor had once built a guard-post on the high ground, with a view of both the valley of Dale and the River Running, as the rapid currents winded through the green landscape towards the Sea of Rhûn. It was but rubble after the Battle of Five Armies, but several small, moving dots could be seen weaving between the boulders and beams and there, too, reconstruction had begun.

Large ravens soared through the air around the fallen tower, startled from their resting places until settling once more with hoarse cries, faint in the air even from the distance. It was a raven, who had told them the news of the dragon's demise and carried word to Dáin, and Thorin had in return requested special nesting places to be build for the talking birds above the top-most rafters of the structure.

The cobble-stoned path followed the river, starting from the Lonely Mountain to the lake where the path then forked into two; one, well-traveled towards Dale, another bending east to the Iron Hills, and the last bending around the lake to open plains of Rhovanion until meeting up with the Old Forest Road through Mirkwood. Kíli, leading the way, steered them towards the eastern road – more a dust trail, unused for nearly two centuries when there was no trade between the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills.

All that remained of the road were way-stones, poking out from the tall grass.

Once the sloped fields opened up before them and the ponies fell into a comfortable, easy trot, the brothers shared the first pie between them.

"Hard to believe possible," Kíli spoke through a mouthful, brushing off crumbs from his stubble beard and fur-lined coat with a hand. "But this is almost as good as Bombur's cooking."

Fíli nodded his quiet agreement, chewing into the still warm bread crust and gaze trained on his surroundings. While a peace had fallen over the wilderlands, he kept up his guard even then. While most orcs and wargs had been slain in the battle, some had fled into the hills and valleys; returning to the Misty Mountains or hiding out in caves and unclaimed lands between Celduin and Carnen, he did not know. Fingers gripping tighter around the reins, the familiar yet unwelcome pains throbbed beneath his skin.

He had no confidence in his own skills to survive an ambush.

They rode for a few hours, until the Long Lake looked like nothing but a puddle in the distance and the great gates of Erebor vanished entirely from sight behind cliff walls. The chill grey dawn had given way to the Spring heat, soon forcing them to discard their cloaks as the sun baked down from above. Spending most of the time in a comfortable silence, where the two brothers enjoyed each other's company and the warm weather, the two soon finished both the last pie and the bread rolls; content and full, they laughed at the thought of their uncle, by then surely fighting his hardest battle yet against an unbeatable force of noble ladies, screeching for attention.

"Has a fair maiden caught your eye yet, brother?" Kíli asked with a wry smirk.

Fíli held his gaze for a moment, then rolled his eyes in exasperation. Though not with a laugh. "Oh, yes," he responded with feigned seriousness.

Before his brother could respond pass opening and closing his mouth, the blond Dwarf spurred his pony; fresh winds whipped against his face, as he swiftly followed the downward slope. Hooves thundered against the ground, soon followed by his younger brother's pursuit close behind. They raced over the open fields, arrows shooting across green, until finally falling into a slowed pace to spare the panting animals; Fíli patted his mount, scratching behind one twitching ear and down the pony's neck.

Kíli quickly came to his side once more, their legs brushing with how close they rode. "There _is_?"

Rolling his eyes once more, playfully landing a punch to the other Dwarf's shoulder, he responded. "Of course not!" He leaned back his head to feel the sun against his face, eyes turned to the cloudless skies in thought. No, he had yet to feel the pull of his One; even the slightest of tugs, steering him towards his destined partner. If, of course, Mahal had created one for him. "What about you?" He asked offhandedly.

"Not what I know off," Kíli said with a shrug.

Whether Fíli even wished to be married or not, he was not all too sure, if he ever truly would be for certain. For now he enjoyed his – albeit limited – freedom, satisfied, and more than preoccupied with his responsibilities as Crown prince. Perhaps being a husband and a father was too much? He of course knew the expectations and hope laid upon him; to produce an heir to the throne, to carry on his bloodline, but he had yet to turn eighty-three. It could surely wait. "I am sorry to say, but I have my doubts anyone could ever put up with you, Kíli."

His brother let out a dry laugh and returned the earlier punch. "You do."

"I am your _brother_."


	7. Lingering Gazes

Sorry for the delay, as usual!

To _Obsessed reader_ _(guest)_ : I almost like the how chapter turned out, despite the obvious middle finger I think my computer is giving me, and I'm glad you liked the descriptions as well. I was having an awful time putting thoughts into words, but seems I wasn't completely off the mark! The way Fíli walked into Bilbo's home in the movie was downright _awesome_ , and I for one was sold already then because he really looked like he owned the place – hopefully he will return to his usual self as the story progresses, but then again maybe not. Who knows (except I should hopefully, as the author ...).

To _guest (guest)_ : Thank you for that, I'm really glad you like my details. Sometimes I fear I'm rather putting _too many_ descriptions into my writing, so it clutters up and ruins the flow of the story. And of course I shall continue, although rather sporadically as I'm that type of (annoying) writer! Though hopefully I won't have too long between updates (is what I say after almost two weeks between the previous and this chapter), I know how terribly dull it can be to wait for new chapters.

I love rabbits so I don't know what the heck I was thinking with this chapter ...

Please enjoy chapter 7!

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter VII: Lingering gazes

* * *

The sloped hills evened out into a long stretch of open fields, with only a few rocks protruding through the tall, swaying grass and some scattered patches of trees. Most mere dots in the distance. They had left the old road almost an hour earlier, moving away until the rune-inscribed stones were swallowed in the grass, keeping the contoured ridges of the Lonely Mountain as their guiding beacon to their left. When the sun climbed to its highest point in the sky, baking down on them with unrelenting waves of heat, they came to a halt beneath a large, lone-standing oak.

Its crown of leaves was an intricate web of branches until barely any light filtered through and, instead, a cool shade fell over the Dwarf brothers; dismounting, they each tied their ponies to the roots – massive and gnarled fingers crawling over the earth, securing the tree trunk in its place and a last defense against the ever-changing seasons; ridges of bark, dried greyish brown in the warm Spring weather beneath the sun. Fíli fished out an apple from the saddle-pouch, immediately gaining the undivided attention of his pony. Holding his hand flat, he allowed the pony's muzzle to brush against his gloved hand, soft but insistent lipping at the offered fruit with satisfaction.

With his free hand he rubbed down the length of its neck and stroked the short tufted fur between its twitching ears, feeling the beating pulse slowing as the animal rested in the shade, yet still warm to the touch. They had only ridden for close to four hours, but the clear skies allowed the blazing sun complete reign over the earth below. A bead of sweat traveled down his cheek, disappearing into his braided beard and he wiped the back of his hand across his brow. The armor felt heavy over his shoulders. Fíli knew not to remove the metal plates, even if they weighed him down and were rather useless while hunting; it was bad enough they had left Erebor without a guard, but surely their uncle would have their hides if he knew they had gone without their armors as well.

Fíli's gaze returned to the openness around them.

A breeze swept across the field, fresh with air from the snow covered peak glimmering white in the distance against a cloudless sky. Nature's return had been swift after the dragon's demise, once more reclaiming the lands around the mountain slopes in grass. Flowers bloomed in radiant colors between the green – rosy and scarlet, honey-yellow, violet and blue, no longer kept at bay by the beast's overwhelming presence and ancient malice. Birdsong weaved into the air, something that had not been heard in these parts for nearly two centuries, but now so loud they seemed as if wishing to catch up to lost time.

Their current position was well suited for rabbit hunting. With no real places for the small, quick animals to hide once roused into flight, and the headwind disguising their smell made only stealth and keen eyes a requirement for arrows to hit their mark. He rubbed the pony one more time, scratching between pointed, twitching ears, and then he walked to his brother's side.

Kíli was settling his quiver across his back within easy reach, bow in hand, but looked up at the older Dwarf's approach with a grin.

"Good to go?" The brown haired Dwarf asked.

"Yes," he said. "Same as we always do?"

With a nod as answer, Fíli then slipped away on quiet feet through the tall grass almost reaching above his knees. He was making barely any sound above the whispers of the wind – unnaturally so, compared to the heavy footsteps that would usually follow in the wake of a Dwarf. Of course, their race could never rival the stealth of Hobbits, proven by Bilbo sneaking past a slumbering dragon, but with practice they could move with a quietness suited for hunting wildlife. From the corner of an eye, he saw Kíli move forward until creating some distance to the tree, and then the younger Dwarf settled into a crouched position in the grass; an arrowhead flashed in the gleaming sunlight, now rested against the slack bowstring ready to fly.

Fíli's attention returned to the tall greenery, searching for the slightest movement as he circled around the hunting area. The brothers had often used the tactic when hunting. With Kíli's swift – and deadly – accuracy, he could easily pick off the fleeing animals when they caught scent of the oldest Dwarf. While Fíli preferred setting up traps and snares, as they usually resulted in a bigger catch, the always present call of responsibilities in the back of his mind narrowed their hunt significantly. They could not linger for several days to check on the traps and, as such, were forced to use the simpler tactic.

A small shuffle of brown, peaking through the grass some twenty yards from his position, caught his gaze and he paused.

Crouching, he held up his hand in a motion towards the spot, and saw Kíli stretch the bowstring taut in response.

Continuing further around, attempting to put the rabbit between himself and his brother, his eyes searched for any indication of the animal sensing his presence. It slipped between the grass, pausing ever so often to chew on straws or to sniff the air, its vision obscured by the surrounding green that it used for protection. But – as a strong gust of wind blew – it stiffened to attention. It picked up the unfamiliar scent. Fíli could see the small, black eyes; long ears piqued and twitching to catch any sound. Then the rabbit sprang to life, large feet pounding against the earth as it bolted off across the ground for safety.

But, with the attempted escape from Fíli, it instead became visible to another pair of eyes.

The arrow sung as it carved the air.

With a _thunk_ it hit its mark.

Fíli stepped forward quickly, shortly after finding the small animal laying in the grass. He knelt to pick up the rabbit, pulling it up by the long ears so it dangled limply from his hand; his brother's aim had been true, the arrow killing it immediately. A swift, almost painless death. Footsteps approached through the grass while the oldest Dwarf pulled out the shaft to examine the arrowhead for damages. "It was a nice shot," he stated with a smile.

Kíli appraised the animal with a look of satisfaction. "Told you the rabbits around here were big. If we can get a couple more or so there should be plenty for a stew." Taking the arrow, sliding it back into the quiver with the rest, he furrowed his brow. "Rather, think we can persuade Bombur into making a pie?"

"Only if you let him eat half of it," Fíli responded with a laugh. "But I have my doubts we will find any others around here. They have likely scurried back into hiding. Should we head for the southern fields? Can let the ponies drink before we return to Erebor." They made their way back to the oak tree, and the topic returned to food once more – a subject most Dwarves felt quite passionate about. Even more so if drinking came up during the conversation, something that could rival even their attraction to the crafts and precious stones.

They agreed, in all fairness and with the amount of work put into the entire affair, to split the game in three equal measures in return for one or more meat pies; if the portly Dwarf was to hint at payment, of course, for otherwise there _surely_ would be no reason to bring it up themselves. If Bombur was to make the pies free of charge, then it would only be an insult to insinuate the need for payment. Fíli's pony watched him good-naturedly with large brown eyes, its nostrils flaring slightly when it picked up the scent of blood but remained indifferent as he tied the dead rabbit to the saddle. He proceeded to unfasten the knot, then mounted in one fluid motion despite his armor, and gently tugged the animal into a trot next to Kíli, where he slowed once more.

"If uncle feels a bit cross with us abandoning him, we can bribe our way out with a slice," the dark haired Dwarf said as his brother came up by his side.

"Well, _two_ , perhaps," Fíli added with a wry half-grin. "It highly depends on how persistent the fair ladies have been throughout the day. He is not exactly the embodiment of patience – especially not if they have decided to interrupt his work again." He glanced over his shoulder, looking back towards the solitary peak; a faint haze left the grey stone but a dim shimmer against the skies, a spire of naked rock against unending stretches of blue. He briefly wondered if their sudden, not to mention unannounced, departure would cause more trouble than they had first expected.

Both princes leaving without a word was certainly something to be frowned upon.

His grip around the reins tightened, his left arm aching as fingers curled against the leather strap and a frown marred his features. Fíli looked off, away from his brother, not wishing for the younger Dwarf to see his discomfort; forcing his face to relax and his mind to ignore the stabs of pain, he finally loosened his grasp to some extent. He exhaled slowly.

"Did you by any chance tell anyone where we were going, by the way?" Fíli asked.

"Do you really think I would just up and leave without letting someone know?" Kíli received a pointed look and a raised eyebrow in response. The brunet rolled his eyes, looking out into the distance before speaking again, all the while scratching the back of his head sheepishly. The older Dwarf became increasingly sceptical. "I mentioned our plans briefly, when I inquired about your responsibilities to Balin. If nothing else and they truly require our presence, he can at least keep off any mass searches or general panic."

"Did _you_ mention it, or did _he_ ask?"

Kíli waved his hand dismissively. "Two sides of the same coin, brother."

"I am not sure he would agree with that," Fíli said below his breath, but allowed the issue to rest nonetheless.

The clip-clops of hooves were smothered in the deep, soft earth as the brothers made their way south across the flat and monotonous open lands. Easing their way over slopes and grass fields, their only company came from chirping birds and a soft, ceaseless buzz of bees. The orange-yellow sphere had passed its highest point in the sky before Fíli and Kíli finally came across a suitable location once more, between a natural fence of trees and bushes where they left their ponies. They rested in the shade for some moments, finishing the last of the water, before returning to the hunt.

* * *

Fíli tied the three rabbits up next to the one they had killed earlier, amazed and proud of his brother's last shots; the two arrows flew with mere second between, both hitting the swiftly fleeing targets with resounding thuds. He had yet to meet any Dwarf that could truly rival Kíli's skills as an archer. The year had yet to turn to Summer, but the air was stifling, warm, leaving him hot and coated in a thin layer of sweat. The tunic clung to his skin uncomfortably.

He peered into the distance, shielding his gaze with a flat hand, and noticed a glimmer of water barely a narrow line between the green. They had gradually moved closer to the Long Lake, leading the ponies slowly through the plains even though the animals much preferred to rest and nibble away at the fresh patches of grass. They had been undisturbed throughout the hunt and, with a reasonable catch for less than a day's work, were now heading back towards the mountain. Running his fingers through his braided hair, he felt the clear sunlight on his face before finally returning to the saddle.

His brother had continued ahead, keeping a leisurely pace Fíli could easily catch up to, and was moving closer to the serenely quiet, mirroring waters without truly taking control of the reins. Fíli tugged his pony into a canter, a cooling wind brushing against his skin as they picked up speed; tufts of dirt and grass flew from the pony's trampling hooves. He swept past the dark haired Dwarf. The blue hue of the lake changed color as he approached; an almost translucent paleness near the shore, changing to a deep dark as the shallows disappeared into the depths. A dirt road – flattened by both feet, hooves, and wagon wheels, nothing but a yellowy brown trail winding through the green and following the waters – flashed beneath his feet.

The sounds of insects were almost too loud. An ever-present buzz hanging in the air as larvae had hatched in the gentle Spring weather, that had proven especially favorable that year, filling the air with a myriad of life. Stones replaced lush grass; some were barely pebbles crunching below their weight, but there were others of mixed sizes, ranging from a hand to a goblin's head in clutters following the shoreline. Fíli pulled the pony to a slow. A vegetation of bulrushes grew dense along the water's edge, breaking through the blue, but the Dwarf steered his mount to a narrow opening flanked by rocks to the shore.

While the pony lowered its head to drink Fíli slipped off and, with borrowed support against the pony's flank, landed with a heavy thud back onto the ground.

A lone dragonfly caught his attention, zigzagging over the water surface until finally landing on a bulrush nearby. He watched its metallic, paper-thin wings for a moment, ears trained on the sound of hooves from behind. A _plop_ ringing clear made him lift his gaze for a moment; ripples widened some twenty yards out, and he barely managed to spot the silvery green scales of a fish disappearing into the darkness. With Kíli stepping up next to him, the brothers silently turned their attention to the charred ruins in the distance, minds clouded in dark memories and with a heavy air settling over them. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield had helplessly watched the fire engulf the town, the scorching, orange flames piercingly bright through the darkness of night.

They had seen the massive beast fall from the skies, breaking upon the wooden boardwalks and houses.

Never again would Smaug draw breath.

They had received word from the reclaimed city of Dale that many had been lured to the region, following rumors of precious gems and gold resting in the soft muck of the lakebed. Smaug's wrath and vengeance had been swift, deadly, and targeted on the unsuspecting Lake-men; a payment met through death and destruction for the hospitality and assistance they had lent to the thirteen Dwarves and their burglar. From his long lying on the costly bed, the dragon's long belly had become crusted with gems and gold; the precious treasures, with Smaug's decay, now nested within the murky, muddy waters deep below the stillness. A trap, luring those blinded by greed and promises of wealth into a watery grave – for the ancient's blood was like acid on any, be they brave or foolish enough to venture too close.

Fíli crossed his arms over his chest, brow furrowed in thought.

Even in death, Smaug was a lingering plague over the lands of Rhovanion. An ominous dark blotch, a stain they could not remove; its rotting carcass a constant reminder of the suffering brought down onto the humans. "I like gems as much as the next Dwarf," Kíli said with a sigh, "but you cannot be right in the head if you willingly dive into that cesspool of malice."

"If you have nothing to your name I can see why the treasures hold some charm." Fíli responded, giving a half-shrug. A northern wind broke the still surface, creating rippling waves that danced in a sparkle of light. "I am certain the people of Dale will fish through the waters once the blood thins. Whether we will attempt to lay claim to what they may find, I do not know, but perhaps it is wiser to leave both gold and gems where they are now. Treasure coated in dragon blood loses its appeal, I would say."

Long graceful wings flapped twice, loudly and with strength, as a blue-grey heron arched downwards; it swooped low, almost touching the water in a drawn-out glide before pulling back up, dark eyes searching for unaware prey. "I was told they pulled a boy up three days ago. Drowned, trying to wrestle a sapphire loose when the boards gave way under him." The brothers exchanged a look of dismay. "Let us hope they learn with time. Or perhaps they should place a guard," Kíli said and turned away from the lake, hands clasped behind his back; he returned to the ponies, yet Fíli remained still, pondering his brother's words a moment longer and with his gaze slowly moving away from Lake-town, instead looking towards the River Running in the distance.

While his younger brother's intentions stemmed from goodwill, Dale could not afford guards around the dragon's lifeless form; just as it had happened within the quiet halls of Erebor, life had likewise streamed back into the previously abandoned city. Merchants and traders, builders, families – but where coins change hands and trade flourish, there will always follow thieves and misdeeds. Dale's fate had been no different, and the few surviving soldiers were hard at work just keeping the peace and quiet within the narrow and winding stone streets.

He pried his eyes away, quickly following after the brown haired Dwarf.

"Just remember," Fíli spoke while mounting. "What the humans do is not our responsibility."

Kíli nodded, a glum look taking over his features; clearly not satisfied but understanding, they both knew not to meddle in the affairs of humans.

He pulled the reins, guiding his reluctant pony away from its drinking water.

The afternoon was drawing to a close when the princes could once more see the contoured ridges of the gates of Erebor; the first streaks of dark blue and blackish grey creeping over the cloudless sky to the east heralded the arrival of evening. They followed the road, weaving along with every bend and curve of the shore. The still waters became rapid currents when the lake met the river, and even from a distance Fíli could hear the constant roar, loud and deafening. Soon, the road would split into two, one continuing towards the Dwarven stronghold within the Lonely Mountain; the other over a large stone bridge to the rocky hillsides of the western mountain spurs. Taking advantage of the protection provided by nature, the old inhabitants of Lake-town had taken up residence between the mountain ridge and, nestled in a sharp turn of the Celduin, the swift wide waters.

Fíli's steady gaze was focused on his home with a sense of pride.

It would still take them another hour before reaching the gates, yet already from their position he could see the massive walls and bastions, slowly taking shape with the masons' skilled and hard work; it was a breathtaking sight to behold, instilling any Dwarf with great jubilation and any enemy with fear of Erebor's overwhelming might. He was drawn from his thoughts when Kíli, previously slumped in his saddle, rose to attention with an expression of interest. "Speaking of gem hunters," Kíli muttered and nodded his head to the left.

Where the Long Lake met the River Running and the road forked into two, a lone figure stood by the shore. The person – _the_ _human_ , Fíli assumed from the slim frame and narrow shoulders – stood rigid, without a shred of awareness spared on anything but the broken silhouettes of buildings across the waters. "Kíli," he warned with a sigh, but his brother had already strayed from the road and was then approaching in a slow trot. Fíli rolled his eyes in exasperated defeat; then he followed reluctantly, though at a much slower pace.

As they neared, he first noticed the tattered, mud-caked skirt and, peaking out beneath, the shoes down-trotted from many years of use; a stringed instrument was fastened to the woman's back – the wood unfamiliar to him; dark, almost black, as if swallowing the very rays of the sun. It was remarkably beautiful. His brother halted his pony, a smile playing at his lips. "If you consider going out to fish for gems from the beast's belly, I would suggest you did not, lad," Kíli said, his tone a mixture of feigned concern masking the underlying amusement.

The woman flinched at the sound, springing to life at the apparent shock of no longer finding herself alone on the shore, but she remained with her back turned to them.

"I hear his blood is like acid on any who dare touch the waters," Kíli continued. Fíli wondered if she planned to respond, mildly interested though rather impatient about returning to Erebor. His pony danced, tripping from foot to foot as if sensing his mood. Running a hand against her cloaked face, he watched her shoulders square in preparation of facing them. When she finally spoke, he faintly noted the melodious hum to her clear voice, so very suited one making a living from storytelling and songs.

"It was not my intention," she said with hesitation, turning to look at his brother. Hazel eyes, gold-flecked in the shimmering light, widened in surprise at what she saw. She immediately added a _"My Lord"_ with a tilt of her head, polite in the face of what she clearly recognized to be nobility. Fíli's gaze lingered on her fretting hands, then continued over the rest of her features. She looked like she had received quite the beating, with bruises painting half her face blue and yellow, and the dried blood clotted on her split and chapped lips. Ragged and battered, young but tired. However, what truly captivated his attention, a sharp contrast to a minstrel's usual belongings, was the forest green fabric draped around her.

It was undoubtedly Dwarf-made.

Runes in Khuzdul were embroidered around the hem of the cloak – prayers of safe travel. It was something he had never imagined seeing fastened around a human's shoulders. But as Fíli watched her in quiet wonder, brow knotted together, her eyes suddenly flickered past Kíli and onto him; their gazes met, lingered only briefly, before the minstrel broke their eye-contact and looked down, hood covering the brown orbs along with the rest of her bruised face. "Well," Kíli said with uncertainty, clearing his throat and fiddling with the reins in awkward discomfort. "My apologies for the disturbance, Miss, though you should heed my warning."

Fíli pulled his pony into a turn, ready to continue north, yet with his gaze still on the hooded figure.

"No one should wish to see that dragon up close!"

They quickly put a distance between themselves and the woman down the road before settling into a more comfortable trot, following the river once more. Glancing over his shoulder to the motionless figure he noticed she had returned her gaze to Lake-town; the surrounding air was filled with a deeply rooted sorrow, dense and oppressive, and he momentarily felt pity. She was clearly not planning to fish for gems ... She was _mourning_. With one last, long look at the woman, he then forcefully turned away. "Did you notice the cloak?" He asked instead, discarding the disagreeable observation to the farthest recesses of his mind. A twitch travelled down his arm.

"I was busy digging my foot out of my mouth," Kíli groaned. "Did you notice she was a _woman_?"

"Was the skirt not a dead giveaway for you?"

Clearly distressed and mortified at the notion of gravely insulting a lady, Fíli could not help the laughter that welled up from within at his brother's predicament, and soon after he was doubled over, struggling for breath while Kíli looked beyond appalled. "It was an honest mistake!" He barked, a furious blush a vivid red on his cheeks; burrowing his face in his hands, he let out a groan before mumbling lowly below his breath. "I wasn't paying attention to her attire ..."

"Surely she did not mind."

"How would you like being called _lass_?"

Fíli considered the question for a moment, another grin slipping over his lips. "You really _did_ step in it."

The dust-road turned to cobblestones as they drew closer to the gates, and the enclosing quietude was broken by voices, shouts and laughter, and hammers beating down upon metal and stone. They had spent the remaining journey in mild banter – mostly Fíli mocking Kíli – before the conversation turned to the strange Dwarven cloak, and, finally, onto the subject of food. _Again_. They rode through the gates, eyes quickly adjusting to the dimness within the mountain, and entered the grand entrance hall. Unlike in the morning, when they had set out to hunt, the chamber was now not only full of masons and blacksmiths, but several wagons, riders, and Dwarves flittering about in between each other.

Another convoy had arrived at Erebor.

Leading their ponies around the mesh, the princes managed to grab a stable boy to assist them; Fíli slipped his hermelin-furred cloak back onto his shoulders, closing the gold clasp, and hurriedly smoothed any visible wrinkles on his tunic. He untied the bundled rabbits, waiting for Kíli to join him in the small alcove lined with tall pillars, where they were somewhat out of sight – and, more importantly, out of the way. Breathing deeply, he watched a scribe jotting down the names of the newly arrived families, while several others directed the wagons to their designated quarters accordingly to the Dwarves' professions or businesses.

Blacksmiths and ironworkers were settled near the great forges; tailors, jewel-crafters, merchants and other shopkeepers closer to the marketplaces. If they had any family or relatives already living within the mountain, that, too, was taken into account. All in all the structured mess created a lot of paperwork, though the well-being of their subjects were of great importance and a priority for their uncle, and was therefore handled with great deliberation and thought.

Kíli darted past him.

With no chance to word his confusion, Fíli soon realized exactly what – or _who_ – his brother had made a mad dash to avoid. "Leaving the mountain _without_ a word, _without_ a guard for protection, and _without_ any consideration for exactly how much trouble it creates for others–" A gruff, vexed voice spoke slowly behind him. Staring to where the second Dwarf had disappeared to, grimacing, Fíli slowly turned to greet the Captain of the Guard. "–Tell me, what exactly was of such dire importance?"

"Mister Dwalin," Fíli greeted. "Surely my dear brother explained this to you before excusing himself?"

The balding, muscular warrior gave him a withered look, something that could likely level an orc mid-battle. "No." With arms crossed, he glowered at Fíli with a gaze holding little patience for his pleasantries. "He gave me one look and bolted." Even as he carried the title of Crown prince, the second highest position in the entire kingdom, standing in front of the tall Dwarf – one, who had beaten lessons of combat into him since childhood with fierceness and bruises – Fíli knew when to surrender.

"I was reassured Kíli had spoken of this, but it appears not to be the case." He held up the rabbits. "We went hunting. It was to be a surprise, but the plan was to gift you a delicious meat pie as a token of our appreciation." By leaving him to fend off the dutiful and relentless warrior, Kíli had relinquished his share from the hunt; Fíli pointedly ignored the disbelieving snort, rather choosing to back away slowly, with an ever-present, amicable smile and hands upheld in compliance. "I am terribly sorry about the trouble we caused."

"Where do you think you are going, lad?"

"I have work to do." Fíli did not stop. "Paperwork. Surely I need to greet the new arrivals. Excuse me."


	8. The Kingdom of Dale

Busy with work so my time at home to actually write is pretty limited. Sorry for the delays.

And it keeps deleting the things I write - I bloody hate it!

Thanks to all that reviewed, favorited and followed this story! Every little thing is greatly motivational, and I hope you enjoy this chapter although it will most likely qualify as a filler chapter. If only I could give you all an action-packed scene, but we're unfortunately not at a point in the plot where that is an option. Enjoy!

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter VIII: The Kingdom of Dale

* * *

Fingers clasped around the hem of the cloak, pulling it tight around her body.

Ranel wrapped her arms close to herself for comfort. A chill, festering within her very core, proved to be an overwhelming enemy against the warm May weather; with eyes downcast she, in that moment, felt incredibly lost in the great wide world. She had been alone long before the Dwarven company had retaken Erebor, long before the dragon Smaug had unleashed his wrath and died as a consequence of his actions – but then it had been by _choice_. There had always been a shimmer of hope, a faint ray streaked across an otherwise dark-clouded sky that she could once more return.

Now, on the other hand, she truly was without family.

It had been forcefully torn from her ...

A longing ached in her chest, squeezing her heart in painful waves until she finally caved in to the grief. Ranel crouched, head lowered to shield her gaze from the blackened contours out on the lake; brown tresses of hair rolled over her brow, ticklish and gentle caresses brushing against her nose as new tears welled up. Their separation had stemmed from indescribable hatred and betrayal, running so deep she knew better than to ever be reunited. Even still, the hurt and sorrow remained – it always would, she feared. A scar that could not be healed nor forgotten.

The minstrel remained by the shore for several long moments more, face buried in her skirt, and with quiet sobs escaping into the stillness.

She cried until no more tears came out; the buzz of insects and soft chuckles of water upon the shore her only company. The midday sun burned relentlessly down on her back, her body hurting and tender from her beatings and injuries. She felt drained. Exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep, right then and there; to find an undisturbed place between the bulrushes until the pain turned to numbness and her mind settled into darkness.

Then she breathed deeply, repeatedly – in and out – until the pressure in her chest had subsided to a manageable extend that did not feel suffocating.

Rubbing her eyes with the edge of her sleeve, Ranel willed her legs to move; first shakily, unsteady until she finally returned to her full height. The satchel sagged halfway down her shoulders, wrinkling her Dwarven gift, and she quickly readjusted her belongings with a frown. She peered out over the landscape, truly taking in her surroundings for the first time then. The dust path snaked alongside the twists and curves of the lake, meeting the currents of the river a distance away.

White stones shone brightly from the newly repaired bridge, spanning the rapids rushing past underneath. Further, pass the green open fields, the even stretch descended into hills, quickly turning into steeper and steeper rock walls extending like tendrils from the Lonely Mountain. The once destroyed city of Dale, now flourishing with both life and trade, could be seen peaking out over the jagged contours. Streamers of the Northmen's descendants fluttered in the wind, red and gold; bright against the blue skies as a clear sign that the city was once more claimed by the race of Men.

The township was formed back when Erebor flourished under Thrór's rule; set as a strategic advantage for both races, making use of the elements for their natural protection between both rocks and rapid waters. Once, now long ago, the city of Dale had prospered due to trades with their Dwarf neighbors. Food supplies in return for skills and craft-pieces; for while the children of Aulë were masters of rocks and precious stones, they were seldom blessed with green thumbs. And as such, Dwarven settlements often found themselves dependent on the surrounding farmlands.

Ranel drew away from the shore and returned to the road.

A shadow passed above her.

The large bird followed the wind's dance, until it was nothing but a small, black dot in the distance above the rocky spires. Her sore muscles complained with every step she took, her body stiff from several days without walking. It would be another couple of hours before Ranel would reach the city gates, even if she was to set a swift pace.

The air was dry and warm, and it had not been many minutes before the first beads of sweat trickled down her brow. She wetted her chapped lips, ignoring the bite that followed from the cracked and partly-healed skin; a taste of iron and dust mixed within, forcing her to swallow with a frown.

A roar rose, louder and louder as she approached the bridge spanning the river Celduin, where cold snow-melted waters met the stillness of the lake. With fingers absently running over the smooth, even pieces of stones, she paused momentarily; resting, she peered towards the Lonely Mountain.

Two large statues, donning full battle-armor and heavy axes, flanked both sides of the gate as silent guardians. The young Dwarf lords she had previously encountered were nowhere to be seen, likely returned to their homes under the mountain. While Ranel had visited most cities of Men, both massive fortresses protecting kings of old and small wooden outposts far out in the wildernesses, not once had she ever set foot within the grand halls of a Dwarven kingdom. She could not help but imagine the splendor within; buried deep beneath in vaults of stone.

What it would be like to walk the halls so full of history.

"Under the Mountain dark and tall, the King has come unto his hall," Ranel hummed below her breath, pushing off against the railings and set off down the road once more. She held no interest in gold nor treasures, especially not after a dragon had spent the last two centuries lying upon them, but rather the magic and lore deeply engraved in Erebor's very foundations. In every pillar and slab of stone.

The sight would truly bring her stories to life.

Perhaps she should stay long enough for the gates to open to outsiders – for her Dwarven companions to call upon her for a visit? Ranel had not quite planned to linger around in Dale longer than truly necessary. Her plan had merely been to see the fate of the city and its people; to know for certain the end that had befallen her last of kin. Where her journey would then take her she was uncertain, except for the fact she would head west. Away from the darkening shadow, its reach growing continuously longer and longer; hiding in the lands of old evils. A buzz of energy, a malicious power, heavy and oppressive in the air for those who knew how to listen.

Ranel felt torn. She disliked strife and conflict, and the region was uncomfortably close to old strongholds of the enemy. But the fear of war was still distant; yet but a whisper on the wind, and as such it would still be years before it would truly take shape. She had time ... By the time open war would be upon the free peoples, Ranel could settle down in the lands of Eriador, where the summers were warm and the winters mild. There she could live in peace, telling her stories and singing her songs without concern for the outside world.

But she had, a long time ago now, promised to witness all the wonders and beauty of the world. Erebor would be one of them.

In contemplation, Ranel carefully weighed the pouch at her belt. It was light, but not completely without heaviness thanks to the dead bandit left behind in Rohan. It would be enough to get by the first weeks in Dale, at least until she could find worthwhile means of support. Unlike craftsmen and shopkeepers, a woman of her profession could rather easily move from one place to another. There was usually work to be found in larger cities as long as they held at least one tavern or inn. Her only problem was that none wished to look upon a dirty, mud-caked and bruised girl, let alone allow her entrance to their lodgings.

She would have to pay her way into the establishment; trade coins for both a room and a proper, thorough shower to wash off all the grime and filth – neither of which would come cheaply, she feared.

Ranel's trek through the sweltering Spring heat left a sheen on her skin, the fabrics of her clothes clinging uncomfortably tight, when the city walls finally came into view some hours later. Scaffolds lined the stone walls as well as the taller buildings, peeking out over the ramparts. Repairs were ongoing, mending not only the damage caused by the fire-breathing serpent's first arrival, but also the destructive forces of time and the great battle following in the wake of Smaug's demise.

Voices travelled with the wind, speaking of the mesh of life bustling about just beyond the opened gates. Horse-drawn carts moved to and fro, pulling with them materials for the stoneworkers busily fortifying the city walls. Upon closer inspection, she was surprised to see several small, but stocky, frames weaving in and out between the men. _Dwarves_. Apparently the new King under the Mountain had generously lent his own workers to assist in the rebuilding of the ransacked city. The wooden boards creaked below her feet as she crossed one of several drawbridges accessing the town, easing her way past the workmen in an attempt to not disrupt their flow.

The keeper of the gate gave her a long disparaging sneer from below his helmet, likely not seeing past her ragged beggar-like appearance. Although her ears burned, both in discomfort and distaste, Ranel kept her gaze held high and spared no attention on the ill-mannered man. She knew well how bad she looked. A shadow fell over her while she passed below the archway; a brief cover from the harshness of the sun.

Cobblestones, round and smooth below her downtrodden shoes, led her into the city. The path opened up ahead, revealing large stone houses; red-tiled roofs and white-washed walls. Both men and women were busy at work, and the hectic street was a mesh of colorful fabrics. Loud voices boomed without pause; shouts and laughter, yelling and haggling. A burly bloke pushed his way through the crowd, dragging along a pair of equally large pigs and she quickly sidestepped him to create room.

Less than eight months earlier the city of Dale had been but a ghost town void of all life.

But with the dragon's fall, peoples from all across Middle-Earth swarmed back smelling the chances of a new livelihood and profits – if any was to fall their way after the recovery of riches from Erebor's previous lord, and if the new King under the Mountain was to be true to his promises made with Lake-town. Riches would once more flow from the mouth of the mountain.

Ranel walked towards the town center slowly, instead finding herself preoccupied as she took in all the sights around her. Several of the grander buildings had gotten new fronts, polished and glistening beneath the light, but there were still marks left from Smaug's rampage as well as the great battle following the reclaiming of Erebor. Dark smudges of sooth ran across a spire, the pointed top completely missing and broken off; other walkways and balconies were left without proper railings or with gaping holes left unattended. Charred to black. Though, slowly, the city was rebuilt – soon to return as the center of trade in the region of Rhovanion between Men, Elves, and Dwarves.

Small boys, clothes tattered and faces dirty, slipped with practiced ease in and out of the crowd; Ranel's hand quickly found her pouch when one came a bit too close, and she did not plan to let go, for the children of the streets were highly skilled. One brief moment of unawareness and she would be without a coin to her name. Pickpockets were one telltale sign of the current state of Dale, but as she approached the town-square several others could be spotted from the corner of an eye; within the shadows and narrow alleys, huddled together in low whispers.

Men of seedy and unsavory dealings.

No city was ever truly without such people, but with the lack of a properly functioning guardsman force, they had more leeway to settle into.

The town square was a wide open space, holding several dusin stalls set up around a grand fountain in the middle. Blooming flowers of red and yellow matched the banners flapping loudly above the noises. To show the rule of the new lord of Dale. Noblewomen in fine silks strolled leisurely about, arm in arm, and took in the goods lined up with an air of bored admiration. Gruff men, with hands calloused from work, carried heavy sacks of grain or seeds, and woven baskets of firewood. A small group of Dwarves observed and assessed wood-carvings in hushed voices, turning items over in gloved hands to take in every detail and line.

Ranel halted when a low growl escaped as her nose caught scent of newly baked bread. Her last meal had been early morning with the sun's rising, back when her travelling companions had packed up camp. she rubbed her stomach soothingly; she would have to wait.

That did not discourage her from approaching the stall, though. The vendor gave her a quick look-over and an upturned nose.

Her eyes rolled over the breads, hungrily, almost hoping just the sight would be enough to quench the hollowness inside her stomach. Sugar-icing, raisins, and dried fruits. Honey-cakes and braided rolls. She stood quietly for several long moments until the man cleared his throat in annoyance; clearly dissatisfied about her taking up space instead of valuable customers. Mumbling a low apology, Ranel shuffled away and back into the crowd.

Continuing further into the denseness of people something else caught her interest. A merry tune, strings of a story being told, woven by the playful calls from a fiddle working with the gentle tunes of a flute. Drawn in by the familiarity of her own craft, Ranel pushed her way through the gathered, attempting to see the show unfolding in the busy marketplace amidst the crowd. Managing a clear view between a couple of broad-shouldered men, Ranel watched with rapt interest.

An elderly man, resting on a seat by the fountain, played the stringed instrument in his lap with swift hands. Slender fingers worked their way across a flute as a woman, much younger, spun round and round in a dance of colors, enticing onlookers; the third member, face a perfect mirror of the flute player's, urged coins from their audience. She slyly dodged grabby hands and approaches from the workmen, smile never faltering and she returned most attention with playful winks. Their bright clothes clung to their skin, perfectly bringing out their best assets.

The melody was uplifting, speaking of a future full of brightness and hope so very fitting Dale's new beginning.

Ranel knew the old man and his granddaughters, though not as close friends nor real acquaintances. They had once – some years ago now – played at the festivities following the coronation of Angelimir, the twentieth Prince of Dol Amroth. The trio had then, too, gathered quite a crowd and left very little work to the other minstrels during the weeks long celebration.

But she did not worry about their presence; Ranel was not without confidence, for she had practiced hard and long to hone her skills. Perhaps the twins could attract the notice of men, while she, on the other hand, was much more accustomed to people of finer social standings. Although fewer in numbers, the pay was greater. She stayed until the end of the song, greatly enjoying the music, then quietly slipped back into the mass of people.

She had still to search for an affordable place to spend the night.

 _And wash_ , she thought, once more catching the scent of her clothes.

Dale consisted of several streets – wide and narrow, forking into alleys or leading to open places and gardens. Twisting and bending, climbing and descending with the rocky mountain slope upon which the city rested. In her search Ranel quickly came across several establishments, but with only a glance at the fancy interiors, knew well any entrance would soon be followed by a swift leave.

So she took to the smaller streets, seeking comfort from the sun.

Some time later, satchel heavy on her shoulders, the minstrel finally stumbled upon a sign; partly hidden behind green vines and white flowers, _the Three Kegs_ could be read on the wooden board. She paused in her step, looking into the small, empty courtyard. Several benches were placed around the open space, and a saddlecloth had been slung across one. Pots of marigolds adorned the walls.

A high-pitched whinny came from the shadowed stables to her left, and a boy's soothing but muffled voice followed.

Ranel attempted to scrub the worst dirt from her face with a sleeve, likely only making the smudges worsen, before she crossed the courtyard with purposeful strides. The door was open, allowing the cooling breeze to enter, and she stepped into the dim room. It did not take long for her eyes to adjust to the light, or lack thereof; the tavern room was small, consisting of no more than half a dusin tables and the counter, where Ranel found herself waiting for the innkeeper.

An unlit fireplace took up half a wall, while the rest were left bare. The small windows were grimy and allowed only a slimmer of sunlight to filter through. On her other side, two narrow staircases led to the upper floors and the basement. "Excuse me?" She spoke into the quiet, voices cracking from lack of use; clearing her throat, she called again, this time louder. "Excuse me, is anybody here?"

Several long moments of silence followed. Then _thuds_ ; heavy footfalls sounded from upstairs. First faint, but swiftly growing louder until a person appeared over the railings. "Welcome to the Three Kegs, I'll be right there with you." Bundling up her skirts, the plump woman took the steps two at a time; shortly after stopping in front of Ranel, gooseberry eyes tilted in a brief smile at the sight of the guest. "What can I do for you, Miss–...?" She trailed off.

"My name is Ranel, Madam. I am looking for an affordable room, something to eat and," she responded while motioning to her clothes, "–a bath."

The woman followed her gesture, shifting the attention to the tattered attire of the minstrel. "I imagine you do," she muttered with a laugh, then stepped to the side and walked into the tavern room. "Rough roads?" Ranel gave a short nod, her grimace telling lengths. "My daughter will set up a room for you. Meanwhile, how about you take a seat and I'll get you a nice bowl of stew? Choose any place you like – we don't have many customers this time of day." Ranel did as told and shortly after slumped into a chair.

The hostess vanished through a door behind the counter.

Barely having slipped off her satchel and lute, a wave of exhaustion overcame her and she closed her eyes momentarily. Her head spun, streaks of light flashing over her eyelids; sharp against the dark. She breathed heavily, rubbing the side of her neck tenderly and with a wince.

It had been weeks since she had set off from Minas Tirith, on a journey she knew would stir up old and painful memories, and now she had finally arrived in Dale. She knew well she could not continue her travels without knowing the fate of her kin, but in that moment she regretted ever setting foot within the city. The creaking calls of hinges brought her back, eyes snapping open to attention; the woman shouldered the door open, both hands full. "Here we are."

Steam welled up from the bowl placed before her. "Thank you," Ranel said with a nod and a grateful smile. "It smells delicious."

"Enjoy your meal, Miss." The keep lingered, watching her with veiled interest; Ranel picked up the wooden spoon, immediately digging into the meal prepared for her. A mouth-watering taste filled the insides of her mouth. Still feeling a gaze upon her she glanced upwards, meeting the woman head on. "If I may ask, from where does the Miss come from?"

"Gondor," she spoke, "Minas Tirith to be precise. Travelled through the East Emnet, then further north across the Anduin."

"We do not receive many visitors from those parts. What news do you have from the plains of Anórien?"

Taking another sip, biding her time until she swallowed, Ranel shrugged lightly and placed the spoon back on the table. "Nothing much, except for a few stray orc packs wandering too close to the borders." Though she often earned an extra coin or two by trading news, at that moment all she wished for was a quiet moment to finish her first real meal that day. "Trade is flourishing and even the harvest was beyond exceptional this year."

"My ... Well, hopefully we shall have the same, or you would have been better off staying home!"

Ranel smiled wryly, but gave no other response.

* * *

Having just in time managed to finish her dinner, the matron returned to inform Ranel that her bath was ready.

She hastily gathered her belongings, then followed the portly woman up the stairs. The corridor on the second floor was narrow and parted in two, both with oaken doors leading into rooms. "We only have a few lodging with us at the moment, but we expect more once we approach the Midsummer festival. It will be the first in many years – with the serpent gone and all, you know?"

The woman paused in front of a door, fishing out a keychain from behind her apron. Rattling, the key slid into place and soon after the unlocked door swung open. Ranel was guided inside and she quickly scanned her surroundings; it was a small, rectangular room with whitewashed walls and a single window, ajar and facing south. A stream of light filtered through the dusty air, bathing the small bed in a golden glow. In the open space she found a tub, barely large enough to fit a full-grown man but good enough for her to get clean. A cloth to dry off after the bath was left on top of the bedsheets.

"You can bolt the door from the inside," the matron noted offhandedly, "I guess that's some comfort for a young woman travelling unaccompanied."

"Indeed," Ranel responded. "That will be all – thank you."

After watching the woman leave, she slid the iron bolt into place and turned to face the hot water, hands on her hips. She suppressed the urge to wash her clothes, wanting to get rid of the mud and dried blood, and settled with at least getting her skin scrubbed clean. Carefully placing her belonging on the newly made bed, she proceeded to then remove her garments. First she took off the cloak with great care, folding it neatly and with fingers stroking the fabric with utmost care. Ranel slipped out of the skirt, discarding her shoes along the way; she tossed away both her outer and inner shirt until she stood stark naked on the tiled floor.

In the May weather the air was comfortably warm, but she still hurriedly tested the waters.

It was hot, almost scalding against her skin, when she finally dipped her body into the tub. Every sore and bruised muscle relaxed instantly; first in her toes, then moving up her legs, spreading out through her stomach and over her shoulders. The clear water turned a brownish grey as the filth was washed off, but she did not care. She closed her eyes, exhaling in satisfaction before ducking down under the bathwater entirely. Her brown hair, filtered and messy, brushed against her naked skin in soft caresses.

Her ears thrummed in the underwater stillness, heartbeat a loud hammering.

Ranel resurfaced, droplets falling off tresses of hair and into her eyes; running her hands tenderly across her bruised face, cleaning the remaining cuts, she hummed below her breath. At that moment she felt almost content, with both worries and responsibilities forgotten. With the dirt washed off and from the hot water, her skin had turned a healthy pink hue yet she continued to scrub away. It was her first proper bath in ages – and properly her last in the weeks to come.

If she wished to be clean, _now_ was the only time.

When Ranel finally emerged from the bath, it was long after the water had gone cold and turned a muddy brown. She gathered her hair and twisted the last drops from it; as she ran her fingers through the tangles, constricting and complaining against her tugs and pulls, Ranel picked up the large cloth. Wrapping it around her body, she sank down on the mattress. Her brown tresses seemed like too big of a hassle then. "Maybe I really should cut it," she mumbled thoughtfully.

Legs outstretched, her head met the soft pillow and only moments later she was claimed by a deep, dreamless sleep.


	9. The Three Kegs

Finally had a moment's rest to actually sit down and get some writing done, although the chapter was far from finished it has at least given me a starting point to work from. Doesn't mean it didn't take me weeks to put everything together with every 10-15 minute sessions I have to work with...

While my main character is a minstrel I haven't got the faintest talent in writing my own poems and songs, so unless someone feels up to the challenge to write some for me (hint hint) I'll leave it up to your imagination. Call me lazy and whatnot, but rather that than kill you all emotionally with my second grade rhyming sense.

For this chapter I'd like to imagine Ranel singing **the Village Lanterne** and **Home Again** both by Blackmore's Night (without the Electric guitar solos and such, of course). Feel free to check them out while reading this chapter.

Enjoy another chapter that sets the mood in Dale.

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter IX: The Three Kegs

* * *

 _A sound ... Familiar ... Reminiscent of a time long passed ..._

 _The chuckling river, idly carving through the forest landscape of lush greens, sparkled beneath the clear Spring-time sun in a mesh of gold and silver. Diamonds in a river of molten gold. Branches snapped below her weight when she slipped through the undergrowth; weaving around ancient and tall trees of the olden days when the world was still new._

 _The sandy banks appeared through the bushes, the forest thinning to a clear until it opened up around her. A lute's haunting beauty beckoned her forward, and she knew he would stand there across the river._

 _Where he always stood._

 _... Waiting for her._

The pale yellow light had turned a deeper orange, and the shadows crawling across the white-washed walls grew ever longer with the approach of evening. It took several long and quiet moments before Ranel awoke; at first she stirred only, rolling over on top of the bedsheets before nodding off once more.

She smiled in her sleep; the pleasant dream, the _memory,_ something she did not wish to part with yet ... Head buried in the feathery pillow she clung to the blurred image of a face she could never forget.

The small window, ajar, allowed the cooling breeze to creep inside. A chill rolled over her bare skin until she could no longer ignore the discomfort brought in with it. Rubbing her eyes, yawning, she stared up onto the ceiling and slid her fingers further down over her brow.

Damp tangles met her touch.

Ranel listened to the stillness around her, ears picking up the chirps of a bird likely resting beneath the rafters of the inn. Another joined in, faintly and from afar, possibly some houses away, until both were suddenly cut short by loud laughter that welled up from below her window. The boisterous chortle carved through the evening air sharply, breaking the comfortable peace otherwise filling the secluded courtyard.

The noise rolled over the walls of the room.

The air was fresh and clean as she breathed in deeply.

The first visitors of the night had arrived, drawn to the warmth inside and to the ale offered by the innkeeper; rest after a long day of either work or pleasant leisures. Men usually found an excuse to drink either way, she mused with a small smile.

The last flashes of her dream sank back, disappearing, into the darkness of her past.

Ranel sat upright on the bed, a chill running down her spine when her long, still damp, hair fell softly against her back. She quickly gathered her clothes, strewn about the room, and dressed herself afterwards; fumbling to remove the heavier items from her belt, leaving only her coin purse and the small blade hanging off her hip, she settled onto the mattress again.

It creaked below her weight.

She slipped on her shoes and then proceeded, with a frown marring her features, to remove the worst patches of caked dirt from her skirt. It proved a challenge as most were dried into the fabrics, leaving hideously obvious stains of reddish-brown that would not disappear despite her best efforts. She scrubbed a few moments more on a particularly eye-catching spot until, in the end, surrendering with a frustrated stomping off feet against the wooden floorboards.

She huffed in resignation.

Did she really have to pay for more water to clean her clothes?

Finally fastening the cloak over her shoulders and picking up the Lebethron lute, the minstrel was ready to find work for the night. The matron had left a heavy iron-wrought key on the small bed stand – and it served the only reason why Ranel did not drag around all of her possessions. She would have had one too many beatings with a troll's club if stupid enough to leave anything in an unlocked room, and so the object had spared her from aching muscles and a stiff neck come morning.

The metal was cold in hand; the door closed shut with hinges whining. A thud in the quiet hallway. When Ranel had heard the soft click of the bolt sliding into place, she slipped the key down into one of her shoes.

It gnawed uncomfortably, cold and raw against her ankle, but it was the safest place on her person. Prying long-fingers could easily, subtle as night overtaking day, slip it off her belt or weave their way through pockets.

With an odd tilt to her walk, shaking and rolling her foot every few steps in an attempt to nestle the key into a more agreeable spot, she followed the narrow hallway towards the voices and sounds coming from below. The boards of the staircase creaked in complaint below her feet, her hand running over the smooth banister while her eyes adjusted to the room.

Although the logs in the fireplace were ablaze and every wax candle lit, dripping tendrils onto the floor, the dark wood of the low-hanging ceiling and boarded walls left the tavern room in a shadowy dimness.

Where the tables had been unoccupied upon her arrival earlier that day, several were now taken; a large group of men, seven or eight of them, had pulled two together close to the fire, their talk loud and rambunctious over foam-topped pints of ale. Full beards covered their faces, leaving only small eyes to shine through beneath bushy eyebrows, and teeth bared in laughs or shouts.

More than anything they reminded Ranel of the men living along the East-West Road. Pelt-traders and hunters that spent more time within the forest and scaling high cliffs than with other people. Gruff in appearance but kind at heart.

Though the merry group was likely just regular workmen from Dale enjoying an evening of rest, light haired from the ever-burning touch of the sun upon their faces. Her eyes moved from the group, shifting across the other guests. A lonesome figure, one you would come across in every tavern setting, looked ready to spring from his chair; on edge and dangerous if provoked, with sword sheathed but always close at hand. The plate in front of him looked untouched and his gaze was trained on the large group with veiled suspicion.

Ranel knew who to approach if she wished to trade news of the world.

While shady in looks from top to bottom the lonesome travellers were seldom to turn down company. If approached in an orderly mannerly. And only if the company was to provide worthwhile information in return, that is. She had often planned travels or altered destinations based off of stories exchanged in shadowed corners.

Strife and conflict between young Lordlings over lands and inheritance.

The gossipy servant rumours of wedding bells.

Howls, so very resembling the hunting cries of a warg pack, echoing through the deep forests of old.

A bundle of corn-yellow hair swept past her field of vision, drawing her attention from the cloaked figure. The girl, with a pink blush over round cheeks from hectic work to and fro the kitchens, paused mid-step and regarded Ranel wordlessly. Then, blinking once, twice, the girl opened her mouth to speak. "Ya the one that arrived this morning, Miss?"

"I am, yes," she responded, assuming the girl was the matron's daughter who had prepared her bath water previously. Ranel nodded in the direction of the tavern room, adding, "Room enough or are you expecting more this evening?"

The girl shrugged, fidgeting for a better grip on the tray in her hands.

"Barely anyone comin' around here, and ya as much a guest as they are. So go right ahead, Miss, and I'll be there with ya in a moment. The name's Edild, by the way, if you need anything during your stay." Ranel thanked her with a small smile, but the barmaid had already passed the counter, slipping out into the kitchen behind to replenish the empty tankards.

Ranel found a quiet spot some distance from the rowdy group.

Shifting onto the bench until her shoulder brushed the wall, she turned her gaze once more to her surroundings while loosening the lute from her back. Breathing deeply her nostrils were filled with the air so very rich in smells – heavy with sweet-burning pipe weed, ash from the embers and crackling logs of the fireplace, and spices mixed within roasted meats.

While the loudness of the bigger company, and the hooded figure, too, had caught her interest at first, it was the pair of merchants that halted her gaze in its wanderings. If she was to turn a profit that evening it was vital to first and foremost know her audience; not only who held most coins, but also who would be most prone in departing from them upon hearing her songs. It was not uncommon that those of high stature and wealth were the least inclined to share their riches with others.

She could not help but to, amused, imagine it was the very reason they stayed well-to-do.

Young, and drunken, men would likely pass coins of silver and gold once the lute started its tune and her stories began to unfold. They were the safest bet, yet perhaps luck would shine upon her and the merchant pair would follow suit.

Flecks of mud spotted the frayed edges of the pair's traveling cloaks as well as their heavy leather boots; the inner clothes, hidden partly behind the dark green fabrics, were sturdy – of practicality suited for the road – yet not without some detailed touches to the seams and embroidered swirls of flowers. Belts of fine, costly materials, and with silver trimmings encircling the handles of their swords.

Elbow on the table top, resting her chin gently against curled fingers, she regarded the men with an eyebrow faintly raised. One, with creased lines of age upon his face and deep-set eyes, moved in his seat and revealed a familiar crest across a broad chest.

Silvery white treads embroidered over forest green; the mark of the Lossarnarch – _Vale of Flowers_.

They were traders from the southern region of Gondor, a peaceful and quiet place renowned for their fertile lands and orchards. They usually only had dealings within their own fief and at rare times the horselords, selling fruits of such sweetness there was seldom known any better than the ones from the flowery vales of Arnach.

Perhaps they saw enough profit to be had if a new route was to be opened. Dale would be a mere stepping stone to gain access to not only Erebor, but from there the Iron Hills ruled by Dáin Ironfoot off to the east.

It was difficult to turn from the lure of Dwarf gold.

The barmaid returned, balancing large pints and plates of food on her tray, and she stepped to the large group with a smile. The men seemed to know her quite well, and she lingered briefly for a chat – it was naught but friendly banter, showing the girl was too young to be approached in any other way.

Ranel glanced away when the girl turned, instead preoccupying herself with the dark wood of the table beneath her fingers.

Footsteps creaked close by.

"What can I get ya, Miss?"

Looking up, tugging loose hairs behind her ear, Ranel slowly returned the smile with one of her own. "The same as them," she said, nodding towards the group and the slices of pink-roasted meats, vedgetables and buttered potatoes she could spot over broad shoulders. "It smells too delicious to pass up on, so I thought I'd ought to try it as well. And some ale with that, thank you."

"Right away," the girl responded, nesting the tray below her arm while wiping her free hand in the apron. Then she turned and left to check if the merchants were content. They declined the barmaid's offer to refill their near empty wineglasses, and so the blonde returned to the kitchen.

It did not take long before the barmaid came back, quickly placing a full plate in front of the minstrel; Ranel smiled thankfully, inhaling deeply and felt her stomach growl in response. She felt unusually starved.

She was about to dig in when she noticed the barmaid lingering at the table.

Hands, rough from work, fidgeted and wrung the coarse fabric of the aron. Ranel glanced up, eyebrow raised in query. "Excuse me, but is there something else?"

At first the girl remained silent, wringing her calloused fingers in the apron, but then the barmaid breathed deeply. "May I join ya, Miss?" Edild waved a hand towards the other guests, then spoke again with a tone of apology. "They won't need me for a while."

Ranel, eyebrow raised in mild amusement and curiosity, smiled.

Then the minstrel gave a nod, interest piqued at the sudden request. "Go ahead. I do not mind the company." The barmaid slipped into a seat on the opposite bench, blue eyes never leaving the other woman's for even a moment. Regarding her with clandestine interest, she imagined the girl could be no more than fifteen or sixteen; cream-coloured skin without many a blemish apart from a soot covered chin and papir-thin, darkened circles beneath her eyes from morning work.

Edild likely had no trouble finding a handsome suitor in the years to come.

Allowing the other to settle, Ranel dug into her dinner with quite the appetite and soon her mouth was filled with the salted taste of meat.

"I hope you'll excuse my boldness, Miss, for it is naught but curiosity."

Dismissing the worry with her free hand, she peered up from her plate through lowered eyelashes to the barmaid. It was not uncommon that she sparked the interest of young women, so seldomly used to the outside world – a world that was usually bedtime stories of dangerous places and dangerous men. Although the attention was without the same reverence mingled with apprehension that usually befell the northern rangers and stragglers, though minstrels equally knew of the roads of Middle-Earth well.

Ranel swallowed a mouthful. "It's fine."

"Ya wouldn't possibly have a husband lookin' for ya back in Gondor?"

Perplexed at the unexpected question, spluttering, Ranel shook her head. "Not that I am aware of. May I ask why?"

The girl leaned closer, elbows against the table; lowering her voice a notch upon her next words and a compassionable gleam in her eye. "Your secret would be safe with me. It isn't the first time I've seen a face painted black and blue like yours," she explained and scratched her cheek sheepishly. "Usually after ... _falling down the stairs,_ if ya get what I'm saying?"

Still rather shocked, almost speechless, Ranel slowly came to understand what the girl was trying to hint at. "I did not run away from any husband, abusive or not." She spoke, indignation lining her tone of voice, while quickly pulling her lute into view. "I am a wanderer turned to Dale after hearing stories of the dragon's demise. Nothing more, I can assure you."

"I apologize, Miss, it was not my intention to be rude," Edild immediately muttered, ears ablaze and eyes downcast. The cracked and rough fingers once more worked their way across the apron. "I wouldn't have held it against ya in the slightest. It's not–," her voice dropped an inch further, "–uncommon around these parts, I'm afraid to say. I could only imagine it would be no different in a big city like Minas Tirith."

Ranel at first looked for a few moments soundlessly, then, heaving a sigh, responded tentatively. "I did not leave Gondor due to any man. _This_ –" She gestured towards her bruised face, flinching at the mere memory of her beatings still vividly fresh against her skin. "–was the courtesy of a bandit I encountered on my way through The Wold."

With a gasp at the words, the barmaid's eyes shimmered with renewed interest – though not entirely without uneasy concern. For she likely knew the outcome of such an encounter. Her gaze flickered over the minstrel. "Did he ..." But before she could voice any further questions, Ranel cut her off with a small smile as she shook her head. She had been spared such a fate.

"I'm glad to say he's lying dead back in Rohan."

"My! The Valar must've certainly held a saving hand over ya, Miss."

Ranel let out a laugh. "That, or it might just have been the Dwarven company I was traveling with."

"Dwarves? Really now!" The girl exclaimed, all the more shocked as the story unravelled. "That is quite fortunate to have such great protection on your journey." With a soft smile, remembering the comfortable presence granted by her kind companions, Ranel agreed with and nod and another mouthful of meat.

"Indeed," she said.

A quiet fell upon them; and Ranel used the moment to thoughtfully mull over the earlier conversation, while finally filling her stomach to settle her hunger. It was a queer topic, so seldomly spoken of in the open. More often it was whispered gossips passed between greying women with nothing else to spend their time on.

"When you say it is not _uncommon ..._ for a husband to harm his wife so ..." She trailed off, unsure how to finish her question without coming off as being nosy, and instead chose to regain silence. Ranel pulled her tankard of ale close, and sipped the sweetly rich and golden liquid at her loss of words.

She felt uncomfortable, but it seemed the young barmaid was glad for the company.

With a shrug of her shoulders, sending blonde curls tumbling down, Edild carefully explained with little warmth to her tone. "Let's just say my father tended to find comfort in his bottles, and a drunk man is often an impetuous man. He raised his fist rashly." Her blue eyes flashed, yet otherwise her calmness was not betrayed. "He did little at home except drain the kegs or spew words of hurt – mum handled everything even back then, and that's no secret to anyone!"

"What happened to your father?"

"Never did find 'im after the winged serpent attacked. And good riddance, I'd say!" The girl spoke with vehemence. "Can hope he was crushed beneath the falling beast or swept away by the current down the River Running, never to be heard of again. Only decent thing Smaug ever did." She waved out towards the dim room. "Now we're set up shop here and doing much better than before."

Ranel ran her fingers against the rough surface of the tankard. "I would offer my condolences, though I feel they were to be wasted. Is it but you and your mother that run this place?" The barmaid gave a nod.

"The new lord was kind to grand buildings to those of us who lived in Lake-town first and foremost, before all the newcommers flocked to the city. Gave us all roofs over our heads. All profit made these first years will be entirely our own, and only then will we pay taxes to ensure our well-being." Her tone, previously laced with years of old hatred, was now filled with warmth. "Many lost their lives then, but it also brought a new start for those of us that remain."

A call came from across the room, forcing Edild back to her work; the girl stood, thanked Ranel with a smile and stepped towards the large group. Watching the other for a moment longer, the minstrel turned her attention to her dinner.

It was hard to fathom the great changes brought upon the people of Lake-town, forcefully tearing them from their homes in a devestating storm of ash and flame. They had struggled to rebuild and settle in old ruins, during the freezing winter months; starving and injured, yet still, in the end, prevailed.

Hardships brought forth the unyielding will of Men, to fight and rise up once more, just as it had years and ages before. The struggles of both the Northmen and the Dwarves of Erebor would in times to come tell tales of a returning Dawn after the dark.

They would no longer cower beneath the mountain forever in fear of a slumbering beast of old.

She swirled the foam around in the bottom of her tankard, brow creased in deep thought.

The shadows grew long and thin as evening turned to night; the golden-white rays dimmed to a darkened blue closing in, until only the flickering flames illuminated the tavern room. Ranel had long finished her supper.

Edild had returned once to refill the then empty tankard and to take the plate, though she had not lingered to continue their conversation. More customers paid the establishment a visit and soon the place was blooming with voices, forcing both barmaid and matron to weave in between the stocky frames of workmen. The room was hazy with pibe smoke and hot against her face, with so many people clumped together the evening cool had made way for a humid, stuffy air.

She wiped her brow, brushing strands of hair from her eyes and looked out over the tavern.

After an hour or two Ranel knew it was time; she picked up her lute and slipped from her seat. With practiced steps, making her way across the floor, she had earlier picked out her targets and now steered directly towards them; nested between two rowdy groups, enjoying their fifth pints or so, were a couple of tradesmen resting for the evening.

The minstrel ducked below a hand waved about in the air, swinging a mug around a wide breadth in an engaging story that roused a great cackle from his friends. Ranel had waited for an opportune moment when the ale had flown for a while, but not long enough for drowsiness and disorderly behavior to set in over clouded minds.

The men wore humble clothes, fading in comparison to the lavishly embroidered garments of the Lossarnarch merchants – who unfortunately had retired to their rooms earlier – but still it spoke lengths to her about their standings. Hair, grey at the roots; wrinkled lines of age and harsh weathers; but their hands were without callouses, unused and without roughness of work.

They had gold, but were not too fine as to not part from it.

She took to an empty chair at their table, smiled at their inquisitive and baffled stares, and spoke lightly and with amusement in her voice. "Good evening, Sirs." Ranel bowed her head in greeting. "Is it not a waste to pass such a fine evening without a little music?" Resting the lute in her lap and pulling it into the men's view, her fingers strummed the taut strings. "Would you not agree?"

Her eyes danced over all three traders, making use of their puzzlement as her gaze rested briefly on each of them; assessing which story would suit their tastes the best.

A tragic love, torn apart by war and strife?

The wild torrents of a river carving through green hills?

Kings and queens in castles of stone and rock?

 _No,_ she thought pleased, _something else_. Yearnings of home ...

"Miss," one of them finally spoke, setting aside his mug to face her properly. "I am not sure we would make a proper audience for your songs. A pretty woman like you would find these young men much more accommodating." He motioned out towards the other tables. The corner of her mouth tilted into a wry grin, but she remained unmoving in her seat. He scratched his stubble beard sheepishly at her steadfast gaze, then cleared his throat.

"Now, now, good Sir," she said, "I much prefer to entertain fine company such as yourself."

Ranel left them no room for argument.

She moved into an upright position in the chair, fingers trailing ghostly touches over the strings until settling at their base. Then, humming, began to play a gentle tune of a home left behind but always waiting for a return to its hearth.

At first her voice was but a soft undertone, drowning in the roaring sea of rowdiness, but slowly, surely, the song gained power and the voices stilled into silence. Ranel carried on without pause, a smile upon her features.

From the corner of an eye she watched the crowd, adjusting herself easily according to what she observed.

It did not take long before the inn's merry guests overcame the somber quiet; with offerings of coins Ranel accepted requests, all becoming increasingly more jovial until she spent the remaining part of the night playing drinking songs with several shouts accompanying her lyrics.

Feet trampled against the floorboards.

Ale was passed around, toppled over, spilled.

The blonde barmaid rushed about, cheeks flushed, in a hurry but with a delighted gleam in her eyes at the many customers. Rising to its full height in the dark sky, the moon peered down through a cover of hazy clouds when the guests finally, wobbling and lurching from wall to wall, began their unsteady walks home.

Ranel had finished her last song a while before and retreated to the courtyard for a breath of air.

The wind had stilled, quieted until only a faint rustle of leaves whispered in the darkness. A stark smell permeated the enclosed space, where drunken men had relieved themselves in shadowy corners. She stretched, massaged her aching fingers, and took one final look up onto the stars above.

The _Valacirca_ gleamed, repeatedly fluctuating bright and faint through the cover of clouds, high to the north. Seven stars deeply set in a midnight blue veil encompassing the world. Bright, unreachable. Beautiful.

"The crown of Durin," she whispered before slipping back into the building through the open door.

Many candles had burned out, the chairs strewn about the room and Edild shuffled about; the girl collected empty tankards, wiped down tables and returned everything to their rightful places. But she looked up as Ranel, wiping her brow with a stained sleeve while resting her hip against a table.

"We haven't been this busy in a long time," she conversed honestly.

Ranel gave half a smile. "Hard work?"

"Aye, but good to see business thriving. Hope ya will be staying here for a while, Miss, I'm sure ya can earn a pretty penny too."

With a short nod in agreement, tugging a loose hair behind her ear, Ranel moved towards the stairs. "I intend to do so. At least for bow. But good night, Edild." Climbing the steps, one hand weighing the purse in her belt, the minstrel knew she would sleep well that night.

"Good night, Miss," the barmaid called from downstairs.


	10. Amidst the Crowd

Thanks to those that reviewed, followed and added this story or me to favourites! It is much appreciated as always.

So happy its Spring. I've missed the sun an awful lot ...

I hope I haven't refered to Bard as king of Dale, but rather appointed ruler, as he was first instated as king three years after the reclaiming of Erebor. But anyways, he shall at least from this point forward be refered to as Lord of Dale. Such horrid mistakes!

I decided the speed up the story slightly, although any relationships will still proceed very, very slowly. And I love the Tolkien universe too much to not spend time going into details with everything he built! But at least our precious Dwarves shall make an appearance.

Either way. Enjoy!

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter X: Amidst the Crowd

* * *

 _June, The Third Age 2942_

A soft breeze plucked at her clothes, blowing loose strands of hair into her face.

Ranel, with legs outstretched in front of her place on the bench, enjoyed the warm caresses of the sun against her face; she rested her head against the tavern wall, eyes squinting against the golden light falling from a cloudless sky.

Her Lebethron lute lay in her lap, the familiar weight calming and comfortable. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she listened to the quiet encircling her; every small chirp and tweet from the hidden nests below the rafters, the creaking of wheels passing by outside the vine-covered gate; a dog's bark, followed by shouts and a string of curses.

The morning had dawned grey and damp, holding a promise of rain.

But the clouds cleared with the passing hours, until the distant horizon claimed the last flecks of swirling white and grey. In its wake, a sweltering heat had overthrown the region around the Lonely Mountain; the minstrel, skin coated in a thin sheen, had barely ventured outside to where the winds and shade cooled the air.

The courtyard of the inn was a much welcome sanctuary compared to her small, south-facing chamber that became close to the insides of an oven with the passing from morning to noon.

She wriggled her toes, inhaling the flowery air with much delight. Dale enjoyed some respite from the heat waves and humidity that had swept across the open plains of Rhovanion, thanks to the long shadows cast by the solitary peak of the Dwarven kingdom. Summer had hit – and it hit hard.

Humming below her breath, attempting to piece together small fragmented rhymes, Ranel recalled her first few weeks in the reclaimed city. It was almost one and a half month since she had set out from Minas Tirith, at first alone through the grasslands, but soon after with an unlikely company she now held close to her heart.

Ranel had yet to hear word from Frár and his family, though she expected the Dwarves were busy at work settling into a new life within Erebor. Often she heard talk about the on-goings beneath the mountain; of how the forges burned, invigorated, and the clangs rang as hollow echoes deep below, in the darkness of the mines.

It did not take long before the minstrel had grown accustomed to the lively city of Dale.

Amongst the winding streets, narrow and wide, lined with flowers in full bloom. A mass of people; traders and merchants, setting up stalls in the busy marketplaces hidden between tall, red-tiled buildings. Men, and Dwarves – even the rare fair-haired Elf could be spotted, overlooking golden jewelry, treasures infused with gems of unimaginable beauty in bloody red, midnight blues, and forest green.

The Valar had truly blessed her with luck of fortune when she found the small inn off of the main roads.

Her songs had lured many to the Three Kegs in the evening's dimmed and waning light. Not only did the customers put a weight to her purse, but also brought in a rush of trade for the innkeeper and her daughter. And _that_ greatly warmed the plump woman's heart to the minstrel; so much that Ranel now rented the small chamber for half the usual price.

With the added wealth to her name, Ranel could - after years of use – finally replace some of her outer garments. She ran her fingers over the dark fabrics of her new skirt, smooth against her skin. The dark colour could be awfully hot in the sweltering heat but dirt showed less, and she much preferred to look somewhat tidy.

Smiling fondly, Ranel stretched her back and shifted in her seat, shoulders aching and popping.

A gentle, high-pitched whinny reached her ears from within the stables.

It was soon followed by muffled words, spoken placidly to calm the mare newly arrived from Gondor. Its owner had marched in, hooded and dark as an Autumn storm of thunder, and barked up about suitable rooms in this otherwise ' _shabby and run-down place they so boldly dared to call an inn!_ '.

The minstrel had heard him clear as day, so clearly he could just as well have been standing next to her in the courtyard, shouting, and not in the dimness inside the building.

The poor horse was with little strength left when it was eased into the stables. It would have likely collapsed onto the cobblestones if not for the stable boy's soothing reassurances of grains and water. Her brow furrowed at the memory, irksome beneath her skin upon witnessing such horrid treatment.

At least the steed was now in capable hands.

The stable boy, Alden, appeared particularly good with animals and would surely see that it received the best care possible. On the other hand, with how red-faced she looked escaping the inn, Edild would likely spit in the man's supper come evening ... Ranel could not resist a half-smile at the thought.

Ranel returned to her work; hands grasped the familiar wood, and shortly followed soft and carefree notes weaving into one with the rustles of wind. She leaned in over the instrument, brushing hair away from her face, and then allowed her fingers to take control while her mind continued its wanderings and musings.

The days following her arrival, she had grown accustomed to the small inn and the modest staff running it. From the barmaid, never to turn from gossipy talks or stories of faraway places; to the kindly yet strict matron, Tova, capable of tossing out any man unable to pay for his drinks. Ranel had come to an agreement with the mother – while she helped bring in customers, they were willing to lower her cost of living with them and, as such, both turn a profit.

Ranel had, of course without much pause, humbly and gratefully accepted the offer made.

She had ventured around the buildings in the days following; two wings were used as guest quarters, with both sleeping areas, kitchen, and tavern room. Arches let from the narrow road into the open courtyard, creating a peaceful and quiet spot to rest away from the bustling city. Facing west, the third wing held a small stables with room for up to five horses. Here, within the heavy air of hay and between trampling hooves, reigned the taciturn Alden.

The young man – with a heavy stout body; muscular legs and well-developed sinewy arms - had a temper completely opposite his outward appearance. She imagined it was the very reason he was perfect around the stabled animals.

When Ranel encountered Alden for the first time, during one of her aimless ambles around the property, he had been mucking out in one of the stalls. Leaning over the shoulder-high fence, she had attempted to strike a conversation mostly commenting on the weather.

He had looked at her with saucer-round eyes beneath shaggy brown hair, mouth opening and closing, much like a fish out of water; before she even managed to comprehend the situation, the stable boy scrambled into an escape.

Baffled, she later asked Edild only to receive a laugh in reply.

"Ya shouldn't worry about Alden. He's harmless, and completely terrified around people!" The barmaid explained, wiping a dried-up spot on the table with vigorous strokes and looked towards the minstrel. "It would likely take months for him to stay in the same room as ya, not to mention put together comprehensible words."

"He looked as if he had seen a wraith," Ranel mumbled and scratched her chin with a frown. "I was not too sure why I scared him off."

Edild laughed again.

"Never really been any good around others, but he's a great help with the horses," she explained, then, pulling a face, the girl paused in her work.

She settled against the table.

"Afraid to say he isn't quite right in the head, haven't been since childhood. He helped us out back in Lake-town, too – mostly fixing things and such for a bit of gold, because he had to take care of his ol' gran. Poor woman was sick yet had to raise him alone."

Ranel nodded slowly, brow creased in thought as she listened. "And what of her? His grandmother?"

One look at Edild's face was enough to answer her question, yet the blonde girl nonetheless explained in a voice teeming with sadness. "He managed to get her out through the flames and across the water. Mostly thanks to his brutish strength. But ... An even worse adversary awaited those that survived the dragon-fire. She did not make it through the winter." She turned her gaze away, downcast. "Mum took him in, so he is part of the family now."

Unsure of what to say, Ranel had let out a small hum and instead remained quiet.

The words of the young barmaid served as yet another reminder of the hardships and struggles, forced upon the humans through the winter months. If not for the aid of Thranduil, the Elvenking, many more would have been claimed by the hunger and harsh frost covering the ruined city. Lives had been saved when the wagons rolled across the bridges and into the city, brimming with fruits and berries, milk and wine; food aplenty to feed the refugees from Lake-town.

She could not imagine such kindness, as rumours had always depicted the ruler of the Woodland Realm as detatched. Unconcerned with affairs beyond his borders and distrustful of strangers, much quicker to turn stragglers from his gates than to offer a helping hand.

Her fingers stilled against the strings, her attention brought back to the present.

 _To judge a man ... or Elf, by the words of those who do not know any better,_ she mused wryly, shaking her head in disgruntlement. A King should place his own people first and foremost. She kicked her feet against the cobblestones, sending a puff of dust into the air before she stood to her full height. Rolling her shoulders, joints crackling in complaint, she settled the lute onto her back.

It would do her no good to think poorly of others; of people she did not know, nor would ever come to meet. "You should not concern yourself with the workings of noble and fair folks," she scolded herself below her breath.

Smoothening her unruly hair into a messy bun, Ranel decided to spend the noon hours in town. Lazying around only brought idle thoughts she would do just as well without. And Dale held many an interesting sight for her to waste time away; she slipped through the arched entrance, breathing in the sweetness of the white flowers, and sat out down the sloped street.

The Dwarven cloak flapped around her legs as s gust of wind brushed down from the north, picking up fallen leaves and swept them away in a winding dance over the stones. Ranel enjoyed the freshness against her exposed neck, soothing against the uncomfortable sheen left by the heat.

Her steps were jovial and soon she whistled a lighthearted tune.

The previous years spent in Minas Tirith had made her accustomed to broad roads, straight and with sharp turns between blindingly white walls; but Dale's narrow and winding streets were much more like a maze, leading her through twists and turns until she always ended up in a new place through her curious wanderings.

There were fewer people around. With balconies without life, shadowed, where she would usually find beautiful women leisurely wasting their days away without much care. Most people, young and old, made their way to the thriving marketplaces instead.

She had attempted to map out the city in her head, but found herself lost once more.

Brushing a strand of hair from her face, exhaling deeply, she smiled to herself. Ranel did not mind, but rather found the unknown path intriguing and new. Her fingers ran across the coarse wall, rough against her skin; the stones slanted continuously downwards until they were entirely replaced with steps.

Following the steps, she rounded a corner and ducked beneath green branches dipping out over the walls. Gnarled and braided, they crept across the thin line of light to the opposite wall, completely shutting out any view of the skies above. Shadows blocked her view of the sun momentarily, and a buzz of insects scratched her ears.

The green enclave was a sharp contrast to the yellow and red buildings; yet unfortunately it was short-lived, for the stretch of trees only lasted for so long and the city's usual view came into sight ahead as the steps evened out and ended.

She rested a while longer in the shade, making sure she could remember her way back.

Ranel then proceeded and used the stifling silence as a guide, until voices echoed between the walls; turning one corner and another. Three, four. Left, then right. The sounds grew louder and louder until the dimness opened up into the bright sunlight upon the grand square.

A roar rose as she slipped into the crowd.

* * *

The quill scratched against the parchment, a harsh repetitive grating against his ears. Leaning back in his seat, patiently and quietly waiting for the scribe to finish, Fíli peered towards the window. A long, thin line of light filtered through the gap between the frame and the wall, allowing a clear view of the blue sky outside.

Gleaming specks of dust shimmered lazily through the air.

With his clenched hand, the young Dwarf tapped his knuckles on his knee and shifted his weight around. Much to his astonishment, their uncle had agreed with Kíli; his sister-sons were too often cooped up in the mountain's darkness, and were in the need of fresh air. Of course, Thorin still had a thing or two to say about the manner in which they acquired said fresh air previously ...

And so, with Kíli more or less voluntarily forfeiting his share of the rabbits, the two brothers were tasked with managing the relationship between Erebor and Dale. It was a mundane task, mostly handled through counselors and letters to and fro their cities, but it was an excuse for them to traverse the grasslands.

"My lords," a voice drawled, forcing him to turn his gaze from the window. "The documents from your meeting with Lord Bard have been prepared."

Fíli rose to his feet.

"Excellent," he said, extending his hands to receive the offered package prepared for them. Looking at the servant, his younger brother coming to stand by his side, he gestured to leave. "Please inform your master of our departure, and that we hope to see him in Erebor in the coming week."

The servant and scribe both bowed their heads, before the Dwarves were guided from the room. What remained of the old Lord of Dale's mansion, once grand before the destructive fires of Smaug, were a few buildings of the east-wing. It had then been servant quarters, but the less than ostentatious – homely, rather – feeling had suited the bowman perfectly upon his moving into office.

They passed through the entrance hall, stepping out into the open where they were met with the appointed guards from the mountain. Not to mention one very gruff and impatient-looking Dwalin, who, if he had his way, would have both princes tied to their animals and halfway back to Erebor already. The old warrior still knew how to hold on to a grudge, and had certainly not forgiven their unannounced hunting trip some weeks earlier.

Then again, Fíli thought as his gaze landed on the Dwarf's stiff appearance, Dwalin had not only been close to losing him and Kíli, but their _king_ in the bloody battle. That was sure to put a terrible fright in any loyal heart, leaving deep scars that would never truly disappear.

Taking the steps two at a time with wide strides, the Dwarven pair approached the company.

Their ponies had already been saddled. Kíli heaved a sigh, scratched his beard and shot Fíli a sideways glance. Choosing to ignore his brother's obvious attempt at catching his attention, the crown prince took the offered reins in his gloved hands.

His pony breathed heavily through its nostrils in greeting, head brushing against his arm.

"It would almost be a shame to return so quickly," Kíli said casually, pointedly ignoring the glare – and accompanied snort of disapproval – Dwalin shot him over the heads of their guard. "Surely uncle would appreciate a report on the city's progress."

"Would he now, brother?" Fíli answered blankly, knowing well what his brother hinted at.

He flung himself up into the saddle, shushing the tripping pony soothingly until it calmed and stood perfectly still. Beyond the closed gates a mesh of noise rolled over the walls; the main road, carving through Dale to the lord's mansion, would lead them through the hubub of the blooming marketplaces.

Urging the pony towards the entrance, Kíli directed his own close to Fíli's.

"We will be passing through either way," he pressed.

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes in exasperation, Fíli instead turned his gaze to the captain mutely trailing behind. "What say you, Mister Dwalin? Should we take a detour?"

"While you are at it, why not go poke a sleeping troll, too?" Dwalin groused, looking less than impressed.

Kíli grinned and turned his head, slipping through the gate as it creaked open. He loudly, and with a laugh, responded. "That does indeed sound most enjoyable, but I fear we will have a hard time rooting out any trolls around these parts! I shall make do with a trip to the market."

Fíli could not help a bark of laughter. "Perhaps we should indulge the _little one._ At least just to avoid his persistant nagging?"

Although the captain of the guard was inclined to disagree – and did so, loudly – the brothers' combined forces prevailed. While the armoured escort was sent ahead with word of their delayed return, Kíli was less successful in shaking off the oldest Dwarf.

Dwalin had threatened to beat them black and blue in combat training if they as much as entertained the idea of moving out of his sight. If anything, Fíli felt like he was a young Dwarfling again, the bald warrior trudging through the maze-like set of tunnels beneath the Blue Mountains after a pair of troublemakers. Yelling threats and profanities that would make even an orc blanch.

Back then they knew of the rigorous training awaiting them if they were caught.

And they always were. Without fail.

They had dismounted once more when they found riding through the crowd difficult, leaving the disgruntled captain to handle the three ponies; they needed little direction and obediently trotted after him.

Kíli leisurely took in every little item in every little stall; hands clasped behind his back, rocking back and forth on his feet, and making small thoughtful hums and comments ever so often. While his younger brother was inspecting pottery – and putting Dwalin in a miff – Kíli looked over the crowd.

All the stalls and shops were open. A row of pigeons cooed from on top of the opposite building, beady eyes on the lookout for crumbs between busy feet, weaving in and out between carts and animals.

The three Dwarves were still only at the edge of the crowd, yet the towering wall of noise and commotion blinded him momentarily to anything else.

His head pounded; mind turning a fuzzy blur.

Colours swam across his vision; waves and ribbons of blue and red; gold and brown in a dance against his senses.

A green line carved brightly through the disarray, clear, and shook him from his daze. The cloak, vaguely familiar, brushed past them and vanished ahead into the crowd. Slipping away with ease. The runes brought Fíli's memory back to the riverbank and the broken-hearted figure standing deadly still against the shimmering mirror-surface.

He had spared no real thought on the young woman afterwards, but now, when she suddenly collided with his field of vision Fíli struggled to pry his gaze away. His eyes followed the green cloak, disappearing and reappearing between merchants and onlookers; and before he knew of his own actions, the Dwarf prince followed behind, lured by his curiosity.

Fíli's pace was slow compared to the woman; her lithe movements practiced in a crowd while he was held back, and with each step she slipped further from his sight. It did not take long before his absence at the stall was noticed.

His brother's inquisitive calls reverberated in the back of his head, yet Fíli did not hesitate nor linger.

Several men shot him looks of curiosity; with him unconcerned and unapologetic cutting through the mass, not to mention the eye-catching, expensive garments, he undoubtedly stood out. The brown hair vanished.

Fíli froze.

Then he blinked.

Running his hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, he frowned.

He had lost sight of her. "What are you doing?" Kíli's confused voice broke through, sending a bolt of shock through him when a hand was placed on his shoulder. His two companions had caught up to him.

"I saw the cloak again," he slowly responded, gaze still fixed on the spot in the crowd.

"I see ... What cloak?"

With a shake of his head, Fíli tried to regain his senses and felt his mind clear. "Do you remember the woman at the lake? The one with the Dwarven cloak? She was just here," he explained, stepping aside as an ox-drawn cart was pulled past them. The large beasts opened a straight path through the gathered.

Kíli gave him an incredulous look. "And what, if I may ask, was your plan after following her?"

"Nothing," he said, still feeling oddly distracted – the Dwarf prince could not explain his strange fascination with the rune-stitched cloak, but he felt as if he needed to know the story behind it. Fíli waved his hand absentmindedly. "Nothing, I think."

" _Think_?" His brother repeated, brow furrowed now with an edge of concern before he, too, glanced towards the crowd. "Perhaps we should get you back home after all." Dwalin remained quiet, observing the two he was tasked with protecting; tattooed arms crossed in disgruntlement, while Fíli and Kíli exchanged words and the ponies tripped anxiously.

"It is nothing, brother," Fíli reassured with half a smile. "Pay it no mind, and let us proceed."

He continued down the open road, the dark-haired Dwarf close behind this time; pointedly regarding the vendors and items with special care to show everything was normal once more. Sparkling, coloured glass were lined up over wooden boards, and the vendor greeted them politely. "Just let me know if you find anything of interest, my lords," he offered. "Finest wares in the lands, I'd like to think."

Nodding in acknowledgment Fíli could still feel the clandestine and frequent looks from Kíli, and he instead picked up a crystal decanter. While his eyes were on the royal blue glassware, his sight went past it looking into nothing in his distraction.

Fíli returned the item carefully, turned, and allowed his brother to lead them to the next stall.

While the sun finished its climb across the sky, descending once more with the turning from noon, they had made their way through the first half of the marketplace. Ahead of them, the road widened further into a square, and the stalls were replaced with jugglers and musicians; children gathered around a puppeteer, the white-masked puppet dancing across the stones in tune with the music. It twisted and bent, wooden arms and legs clacking together until it stilled with a bow.

Kíli applauded good heartedly, adding a coin to the tattered collector hat as it passed through the audience. The puppet began another dance, this time joined by another. The tune slowed, all merriment forgotten as lovers had eyes for only each other; Fíli admired the swift hands, the flick of a wrist, making it all look so very effortless.

A figure, not much taller than he, paused at his side to watch the show.

Green cloak hung loosely over her shoulders.


	11. A Letter

I am not happy with how this chapter turned out, but I really couldn't stand looking at it any more. Hopefully it won't be as bad for you readers, since you only need to read it once while I've gone over it in what feels like 100 times. At least it's a long chapter that will surely make up for my lack of updates. Or not. Likely not. Sorry ...

My thanks goes out to those who reviewed, followed and favorited my little, slow-updating story. Much appreciated, and do keep it up! I really do enjoy reading comments and it's really interesting to hear what you all think. For this chapter, if you want to hear the song, I suggest looking for "Beren and Lúthien" by Caprice; it's closest to what I image.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **when Ravens Fly**

Chapter XI: A letter

* * *

It was as if he had been dropped into a lake, plunged through the cold; sinking below the surface where all sound stilled to nothing. The gathered crowd faded, and from the corner of an eye he watched the woman quietly. Observing. Her bruised face, the black and blue flush across her skin, was now healed, and a softness previously absent had taken to her young features. With fingers clasped in front of her, eyes on the dancing puppets, she no longer looked to be mourning.

The sun burned hotly down on them from a cloudless sky.

Air heavy with sounds and smells in the Summer heat.

Fíli opened his mouth as if to speak, but quickly clenched his jaw shut and remained silent; he had nothing to say – no reason to seek out a conversation with the minstrel, lest he wished to startle, perhaps even scare, her. Instead he continued his watch. He flexed his gloved hands, unsure where to put them until they limply fell to his sides.

Thin shoulders shook lightly in laughter as the performance came to a close, the puppets embracing in a grand display of affection; lips slanting upwards into a smile, and her eyes shone with gentle mirth. He lowered his gaze when long fingers brushed brown hair away from her face; head and body tilting slightly towards him yet she still paid him no mind.

With eyes downcast, the Dwarf now spotted fragments of runes running along the hem of the cloak, partly hidden beneath the dark instrument across her back. He knew those runes well – _Khuzdul,_ taught to the Dwarves by Aüle, the Maker, himself – and again he wondered.

 _Dwarf-friend?_

But his speculations were cut short.

The woman shifted and turned, once more setting off down the road and never once had she looked his way.

Spared no glance on the Dwarf lord next to her.

At her departure Fíli then quickly urged his brother to continue – for 'there was still much to see in the market', and 'surely they should not tarry!'. With his eyes fixed on the brown haired woman ahead, the Dwarf steered with purpose through the crowd.

"What is the meaning of this sudden haste?" Dwalin demanded, impatience seeping into his gruff tone, struggling to keep pace with the king's nephews while all the same pulling along the ponies. "Slow down, laddie. Where is the rush?"

This time Kíli knew what to look for; the dark-haired Dwarf followed Fíli's stare and his inquisitive gaze fell upon the green fabrics between large, broad-shouldered workmen. The woman ducked under barrels, and straightening once more without halting her pace. Her stride was with purpose and swiftness, a green arrow carving easily through the crowd.

The younger prince hurried to his brother's side, then answered their captain over his shoulder following a deep sigh. "A cloak, apparently! _Fíli_ –," he implored, grasping the older Dwarf by the arm and pulled Fíli to a halt. "–stop for just one moment and consider your actions."

Fíli listened and heard the words, knowing well he _could not_ explain to his brother. Not even to himself. It was almost as if some dark magic had been cast over him, stealing away his reason, but still he could not pry away his eyes from her frame. "I ..." He breathed. "I merely wish to speak with her."

"Which is very well fine and all," Kíli deadpanned. "But following after madly and paying no heed to anything else is the act of a reckless fool! If I did not know better I'd even say the act of a _smitten_ fool," Kíli lowered his voice, bemusement and concern falling over his features when he leaned in closer. "You know well uncle will hear of our every step today, even if word is brought to him with the best intentions."

At those words Fíli blinked, befuddled.

Then, much to Kíli's surprise, he laughed. "It is very rare for you to be the voice of reason, dearest brother," he said. Fíli gave a nod, showing his understanding; it was shameful to display actions beneath his usual bearings, and there were many eyes in the crowd. One could never know who would be watching and – worse yet – to whom they reported back to about Erebor's crown prince. "I am sorry for behaving strangely."

He pulled a face, ashamed.

"Perhaps I really am smitten."

Kíli rolled his eyes, patting Fíli reassuringly on the shoulder before wrapping an arm around his neck. "I have my doubts. She is much too beardless."

Although Fíli had laughed and flippantly jested, a nagging feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. It clenched his gut tightly, uncomfortably, until uncertainty filtered slowly but surely into his mind. His peculiar interest had not been the woman, but rather the fabric clasped around her neck; the story surely attached to it. Dwarves did not so easily part with items marked with their secret language; it was not only deemed inappropriate but rather to break an unspoken law.

Khuzdul was _their_ language. It was only shared with great friends and confidants of the Dwarves; and it had not been such since the old ages and the Dark Elf Eöl. But so blatantly displayed on the cloak of a human minstrel? The notion felt foreign to him. Unlikely.

But was she a thief, openly flaunting the spoils?

He could not imagine that to be the truth.

Glancing up and out over the crowd, he was blessed with luck. The woman had, likewise, paused in her wanderings at a bread vendor, brow furrowed in thought as she regarded the wares. The brothers sauntered closer, disregarding Dwalin's huffs and mutterings behind them; Fíli was glad Kíli had easily and with little complaint decided to help him out in his endeavours. Be that they stemmed from smitten foolishness or mere curiosity ...

A group of guards entered the square in their patrol around the city; metal plates polished and bright, red cloaks billowing out after them in their matching strides. Spears stood out darkly against the cloudless sky, black teeth cutting blue, and the crowd parted easily around them.

Fíli allowed them to pass in front of them. Ahead, the minstrel looked up from the stall, when the stomping of feet caught her attention. Head lowered, she quickly shied away, and cowered partly in the shadows cast by the stall; her fingers tugged at her clothes, looking on edge.

But the guards continued their march.

Uncertainty rose in his mind at her behaviour. _Perhaps ..._

Fíli took another step closer, still keeping a distance to avoid suspicions but there was no more than ten yards between her and the Dwarven group by then. He could see the faint lines shadowing her brow; her fingers curled around her skirt.

A yelp tore through the din, angry and loud.

"Stop him! Stop the thief!" Almost as one, men and women turned towards the sound and froze mid work; Fíli first spotted a red-faced man, hands raised as he elbowed his way through the crowd, barking for someone to help him.

But then a much smaller frame, clutching a package in slim arms, slipped between two elderly women. The ladies shrieked in shock, pulling away, but the culprit was already further ahead in an attempt to escape the pursuer and secure the valuables.

The child – the thief – bolted past the brothers, with worn-down shoes skitting over the cobblestones in his frantic hurry to escape the vendor's understandable wrath. Perplexed, all they could do was watch as the nimble-fingered boy rushed past them, long before they had a chance to react. Much like the rest of the crowd, where none seemed eagerly keen to lend their aid and help.

In fact, the people in the square gave the thief a wide berth.

"Stop him!" The man cried out again, becoming increasingly agitated and desperate. "Get out of my way!"

Fíli looked ahead and saw the guards roused to duty; an armed pair elbowing their way though the onlooking crowd, barking orders, and headed straight towards the child. Their faces were grim with annoyance beneath fur-lined helmets. The young boy appeared unaware of his awaiting fate.

But then a green blur cut in front of the thief, swift, and he was caught roughly by the arm in a vice-like grip.

Whirling around, forcefully dragging him closer, the minstrel turned her back to the guards and lowered her head to the boy.

Even from the distance, Fíli's keen hearing picked up the words she hissed urgently. "There are other ways to earn money than to _steal,_ boy," she lowly warned, eyes peering up towards the swiftly approaching vendor. The boy struggled against her hold, wriggling and cursing loudly, yet she appeared unfazed.

Huffing, breathing heavily and with a face flushed scarlet, the angered vendor halted; gaze darkened, his attention flickered from the boy to the woman, then back again before he raised his hand to strike. "You filthy little street rat–"

"I must apologize for his behavior, sir," the minstrel cut him off sharply, tone insisting and caused the man to falter in his actions. The raised hand was lowered slightly. She turned her body, almost as if to shield the child; she lowered her head, eyes downcast, all the while tugging the boy further behind her. "He should know better than to steal yet he never listens. I can promise you that he will be punished."

Fíli watched in bemusement while the woman, still firmly holding on to the child's wrist, pried the package from his grip with her free hand. The boy shot her a livid look. She pointedly ignored him, instead returning what was stolen to its rightful owner. "You think it enough to return what is already mine? I have lost valuable time running after this little miscreant!"

A flicker of a scowl marred her features, yet it soon disappeared when her gaze trailed towards the guards close by and watching silently. "Yes ... Of course, I understand." She rummaged through the pouch at her belt, a clinking of metals carving through the thrum of noises. "How much?" She inquired.

"Five gold coins," he hissed, eyes still trained on the boy. "That's what it's worth."

At this she blanched, face turning pale before she, with eyes narrowed to thin slits, watched the boy; he at least had the decency to turn his gaze away to the ground. The corner of her lips twitched. Pulling out five pieces of gold, she quickly passed them over to the vendor with another apology. "I hope this will prove enough compensation."

He snorted, curling large fingers around the coins before pocketing them. "I'd like to see that little bastard smacked around so he can learn his lesson, but this will make do. But heed my warning – if I see him anywhere _near_ my stall he can be sure to lose his bloody teeth!"

With one final glare towards the small thief, he stormed off back into the watching crowd. Shoving past those that were too slow to step aside. The rush of voices, eagerly discussing what had transpired, roared into life; all hushed, spoken in whispers to those nearby, but with many gossips it soon became deafening.

A long, quiet moment followed between the odd pair, where neither thief nor minstrel made a move. Fíli exchanged a look of confusion with his brother. Kíli merely shrugged his shoulders. But then she shook her head, brown curls rolling down her back, until she fastened her gaze on the child once more. "May I suggest you do not rush into a crowd mindlessly, unless you wish to be dragged off by the guards?"

The boy glared at her. "Who are you to tell me what I can and can't do?" He tore his arm away forcefully, and this time she allowed it; taking a step back, hands held placidly out from her sides, she regarded him with a raised brow.

Then she sighed.

"I believe a thanks is in order, although I fear it is very unlikely I shall receive one." The minstrel waved him away in resignation. "Be on your way then, and praise yourself lucky I won't except my gold back."

He did not need to be told twice, and soon the tattered and patched clothes slipped from sight; once more into the shadowed alleys, away from the guards and back into the dark world created from poverty. Fíli quietly commended the woman's actions, stroking his braided beard in thought, now knowing for certain she could not possibly have stolen the Dwarven cloak. _Honorable._ Stepping between a small child and a much larger, angered man to handle a precarious situation so calmly ...

Acted where all else had but watched.

No. He believed the rune-inscribed cloak to have fallen into her hands rightfully.

 _A token of appreciation?_

His gaze lingered, mind deep in thought and his curiosity far from quenched.

The young thief had done wrong, but to have seen him be dragged off by the guards did not sit well with Fíli. Seldom children _chose_ for themselves a life on the streets, but were rather forced into poverty by the cruel hand of fate; neglected or with family torn from them through war and famine. Worse yet, without a doubt the blame could very well fall on the Company of Thorin Oakenshield ...

To steal was to survive.

Brow slightly furrowed with ill humor, she glanced around; redness tinted her cheeks with the stares turned her way. Long, slender fingers fumbled with her belongings, then rigidly paused at her belt. Fíli saw her eyes widen in astonishment. Pinching her nose and gaze turned to the blue skies above, she sighed deeply.

Fíli noticed the missing pouch at her belt.

* * *

The princes and their reluctant guard continued their surreptitious pursuit, further until the mass of people and noise lessened; in the end they parted from the crowd, when the woman left the marketplace and instead took to the narrow streets.

Keeping a suitable distance, not wishing to overstep the boundaries of propriety – although, upon following her, such decorum was undoubtedly sullied by then – the Dwarves were led further into the residential areas of Dale. Through the winding streets, climbing soft hills, beneath the shadows cast from the roofs above. Twice the Dwarves had to shuffle back and out of sight, when she faltered as if lost to then take another road. Crows cawed hoarsely before settling in an apple tree. The shades of evening began to fall, turning the air cooler as the light of sun kissed the rooftops.

Finally, she came to a stop.

The young woman entered an open courtyard; vines crawled lazily over the walls, and a wooden signboard swayed upon creaking hinges from the archway leading to the small tavern. Fíli lingered outside, thoughtfully watching through the blooming foliage until she disappeared through the open door. A faint voice in the back of his mind told him – _implored_ – for him to return to Erebor. Surely he had seen enough. Broken all rules of justifiable conduct. But then again ... they were there already. He sighed, throwing a brief glance to his brother.

Kíli, with a pensive frown marring his features, returned his gaze evenly.

The youngest Dwarf had allowed his brother's peculiar behavior without complaint. Eyes drawn in puzzled concern, yet nonetheless proving to be a reliable companion as the dark-haired Dwarf then shrugged. "We have come this far," he said. "Surely they serve ale in this establishment, and it will ease our journey home later. Especially so if you're paying, brother!"

Not giving his companions a chance to respond, Kíli strode purposely into the courtyard.

Fíli followed quickly behind, leaving Dwalin to resignedly handle the ponies.

The soft echoing clip-clops of hooves against the cobblestones heralded their arrival, and soon after the three animals were led away by a young boy. The unusual guests had received a look of curiosity but, with a vivid flush, the lad scrambled to take the reins. Even with the mountain retaken, the common folks of Dale never truly had many workings with the Dwarves besides trading wares in the bustling marketplaces. Three of them suddenly standing outside the tavern was likely remarkably uncommon; most Dwarves preferred to return to Erebor before nightfall and to sleep among their own kind, rather than under an unfamiliar roof.

Taking a look at his surroundings, Fíli hesitated once more.

From the outside it looked pleasant enough; the door was open and fire-light, gleaming red, poured out into the waning gloom of the courtyard; clay pots holding flowers of sunset-orange dotted the exterior, and several unlit lanterns hung from the walls. The windows were dark, smudged and opaque when he attempted to peer inside. Many cheerful voices bustled to life from within, loudly, and he listened to the encouraging sound for a moment. There were other guests – he could be lost from view in the crowd, and the minstrel would never know he was there.

He went forward.

Upon stepping inside, they were greeted by a dimness that lay heavy over the room. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and Fíli discovered a big common-room with wooden tables and benches. What little light there was came from a blazing fire, veiled in pipe-smoke and as such cloaked the gathered in darkened grey. Shadowy figures were difficult to make out in the corners. The gathering was large and mixed; but they all appeared in high spirits despite the dingy settings, and to some extend it put Fíli's mind at ease.

His gaze danced over the gathered, attempting to make out the one they had followed there.

Some glanced their way, but most were preoccupied with their own business and spared little attention on the new arrivals. Fíli much preferred it as such, for without a doubt they would have stood out upon a closer inspection; he felt suddenly very aware of his golden buckles and silk cuffs. He pulled the travel cloak further around his figure. A plump woman, carrying a tray laden with mugs, made her way through the room towards them. "Welcome, good sirs," she greeted merrily and with a warm smile, easing the tray onto the counter before wiping her hands on the apron. "What may you be wanting?"

Kíli had taken charge and briskly asked for the tavern's best – and most expensive – supper, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

The three Dwarves took to a table pushed against the wall. Dwalin gruffly shooed the youngest brother off the outer seat, muttering about an advantageous view of the room and bandits out for gold. Or _worse_ \- the head of a prince. Fíli's shoulder brushed the wall as he shifted into place, back against the room, pushing the sword at his hip out of the way; his brother, with a look at their surroundings, settled next to him. "Well, this isn't too bad," he stated lightly. "See anything of _interest_?"

Fíli pointedly ignored the question though could not help casting another long look out over the room. No, he did not. He pulled the gloves off his hands, and ran his fingers thoughtfully across his beard before turning his eyes to the slow, dancing flame on the table. The candle dripped tendrils of wax, its light flickering with every soft gust of wind sweeping in through the door.

The room smelled heavily of pipe weed.

Three large mugs were placed in front of them, followed by a basket of freshly baked loaves; buttered and with thick slices of cheese generously added. "I'll bring the rest shortly," the matron said, once more vanishing into the throng of people without giving them a chance to voice their thanks. Kíli was first to raise his mug, and both Fíli and Dwalin soon mirrored his actions in a silent toast.

The ale was not unsatisfactory, although it appeared to have been watered down and nowhere near as potent as the Dwarven counterpart. It was not the worst, nor the best - while it would do little more than to start a prickle in his fingertips, it certainly would make do that evening. Fíli picked apart a bread roll on his plate, his thoughts elsewhere while his ears picked up the conversations around their table. Most spoke of a hard day's work, or a nagging wife and the harvest; he did not pay much attention to all this, though there were also talks of distant events and telling news of the world outside the borders of Rhovanion.

Soon they had finished both bread and ale, and it was just in time for the round woman to return. This time she brought a tray; burdened with roasted pork and vegetables, a bowl of potatoes, and a blueberry tart. Dwalin's mood improved some, even if he still could not fathom the reasoning behind their current whereabouts.

His sharp, attentive glare lessened.

"As long as we are back before they light the midnight flames," he had stated, nodding over his mug.

Too deep in thought, Fíli chugged his own drink and touched very little on his plate. The longer he sat there, mulling over his own actions, the less sense it all made to him. It was but a silly notion he had allowed to grow within his mind; growing until he finally believed it to be of importance. Yet now he was there and he felt the need to carry through.

Once more he scanned the hazy faces of the crowd, turned halfway in his seat and arm slung over the back-rest.

Never did his attention linger long.

Of course, that was only until his gaze swept over tresses of brown hair near the fire; he immediately straightened in his seat. _There_. The minstrel was perched on a chair, the black lute in her hands and a gentle half-smile on her lips. Another woman - younger, with golden hair braided and tray rested flat against her stomach – spoke quietly with her. Both laughed, and her nose crinkled. Flecks of light whirled in the depths of hazel orbs. A strange sense of relief flooded him, when he noticed how she had no eyes for the collection of local men gathered around them.

Fíli could not hear the words, but neither could he tear his eyes away and remained still. Not moving. Apprehensive. He had found her – however, what now? Clearing his throat he sharply elbowed his brother beneath the table. Mid-drink, the other Dwarf choked and spluttered, sending a cascade of ale across the table before regaining his composure. He shot a glower at the assailant. " _What_?"

With a smile of irreproachability at Dwalin – although the warrior looked like he would have absolutely nothing to do with their antics – Fíli's eyes flickered towards the fireplace. Kíli cocked an eyebrow, dabbing away at the spilled ale that dotted the table. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes in resignation, he proceeded to scratch his beard all the while pointing an inconspicuous finger in the minstrel's direction. The brown-haired Dwarf blinked twice, perplexed.

Sometimes his brother really tried his patience ...

Kíli turned to look, mouth falling open in understanding. " _Oh_." The baffled scowl turned into a wide grin. The brown-haired Dwarf looked at him sidelong, a worrisome gleam sparkling to life in the depths of his eyes. "Tell me, brother, how shall we proceed now?"

Fíli pondered the question, attention still on the minstrel as he chewed into the bread carefully.

The insides of his mouth felt dry, and he struggled to get even a word past his lips. "I– well, nothing?" He feebly suggested, knowing well how pitifully inadequate it sounded; voice low and rough in his throat as he once more found the whole situation uncomfortably awkward.

With a heavy sigh, Kíli rolled his eyes.

Then the younger Dwarf planted both hands flat against the table and pushed himself off the bench. Long before Fíli had the chance to voice a complaint, his brother approached the fireplace with purposeful steps.

Mouth agape, Fíli watched Kíli pressing his way to the two women's side through the gathered onlookers. He buried his head in his arms, letting out an inaudible groan as he cursed his brother's rashness - and obvious heedlessness towards an obviously uncomfortable situation! "Just end me ..." He muttered, arms muffling his embarrassment.

Dwalin grunted a response into his mug, half-heartedly.

He did not dare raise his head, despite the gnawing wrenches of bizarre curiosity in his stomach. _Do not talk to her,_ he repeated again and again in his mind. Fíli sank further down into his seat, praying for the ground to swallow him whole right then and there. Of course Mahal did not then decide to spare one of his own creations; without mercy the Dwarf prince could do nothing but wait with baited breath.

The loud noises in the tavern room ruined any hope of picking out strings of conversation, though Fíli could not help but imagine his brother's voice laced with amusement weaving above the rest. He would stuff Kíli down one of the mining shafts into the darkness below the mountain for this ...

Claps and cheers of encouragement erupted from behind him. "A song! A song!"

A laugh – Fíli knew its owner without looking up, yet still he raised his head to peer over his shoulder. Kíli stood in the half-circle, immediately and naturally accepted in the middle; the fire blazed and flickered, making light and shadow dance across their faces while she rose from her seat.

The lute settled between her fingers already working nimbly to strum its strings.

Then she spoke above the racket, "What about, then?"

The minstrel allowed calls to roll in from the merry gathering. Courageous tales of battle; the creation of The World one whispy voice suggested; and several backed up a shout of _"Ale!"_ , while the young barmaid sighed about romance.

"What say you, master Dwarf?" Brown wisps of hair fell across her brow when she tilted her head to look at Kíli. She smiled pleasantly, though not entirely without a hint of civil professionalism; it did not seem like she had recognized Kíli from the lake shore weeks earlier – or perhaps found it not to matter. "You asked for a song – fairness calls for you to choose first, do you not agree?"

"In that case–" Fíli could hear the gleeful mirth heavy in his voice as the less than subtle hint was clear, "–we could all use a bit of _romance_ in our lives, surely." Oh, how far down into the mines his brother would go for this ... So very, _very_ far.

The sounds quieted except for a few, more hushed, conversations in the tavern corners, while the strumming continued for some moments more. "Very well," she said. "Then I know just the right one. There is no other tale of love that could rival that of Luthíen and Beren, and while I do not master its Elvish origins hopefully the translation to Westron will do it justice."

And so the minstrel began to tell her tales.

Histories and legends of long ago, of Elves and Men and the good and evil deeds of the Elden Days. She sang the tale of Tinúviel, a fair tale, though it was also sad. When the last tunes dimmed into nothing and the room fell silent, many were left with heavy hearts; for Lúthien's love for the mortal man Beren had not been without hardships and trials.

 _But,_ Fíli pondered, _one cannot deny_ _it certainly was beautiful._

He swirled the mug between his hands, first watching the golden-dark liquid splashing about in the bottom as he willed his wavering spirit into bravery. If she had not recognized the other Dwarf, standing mere feet from her, then surely she would not spare a second thought on _him_. Even if he risked another glance. Even if he foolishly had followed her halfway across town just because of an unusual cloak fastened around her shoulders. With more force than truly necessary he placed the ale back onto the wooden table, turned partially in his seat, and shot a glance towards the crowd.

The barmaid, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her apron, was sent off to fetch ale for the minstrel; the young woman strode swiftly past Fíli's table, pausing momentarily and offered to refill his tankard. With a shake of his head he declined, gaze focused on the green fabric illuminated by the dancing flames. _Only_ the fabric, his mind insisted. _Nothing else._

Laying the lute in her lap, giving her fingers a respite, the minstrel spoke of the fate of the Silmarils with a pair of elderly travelers. But only the Firstborns, wise in years, truly knew the fate of the three precious gems, and so they were left with naught but speculations.

Kíli leaned against the stones close by the fire, arms crossed and the contemplating look returned whilst he regarded her. As if feeling Fíli's gaze, his eyes flickered up and met his own; he could not help but wonder if perhaps his brother had played along – for entirely different reasons than what he wordlessly had assumed previously. He could not quite put it past his younger brother.

But before Fíli could truly entertain the idea, Kíli made his next move.

Unabashed.

Pointing towards their table; a short bow and a smile.

Kíli had invited the minstrel to _join_ their company.

Ducking his head, pulling the mug close, he could feel a heat – not from the burning fire – spread across his face. Heavy, booted footsteps approached from behind him, followed by a much softer pair as the woman seemed to have accepted the offer; much to Fíli's chagrin. He should have said yes to a refill of ale when he had the chance.

"Allow me to introduce you to the company," Kíli said, clearing his throat to gain their attention.

Knowing well ignoring her presence would be considered rude, and his mother would have his hide for such behavior, Fíli wished he could continue observing the detailed lines running across the wood rather than face her. In the end he looked up; hazel orbs met blue for the briefest of moments. Brown curls, tousled tangles, left most of her face in shadow but her lips were pulled into a light smile. Just as he took in her appearance, her eyes swept with thinly-veiled interest over his attire – flickering to the longsword fastened to his belt - then further, to the second Dwarf seated at the table.

"My dearest brother Fíli, and our–," Kíli hesitated briefly, though not long enough for the minstrel to notice, "– _uncle_ , Dwalin."

The latter, with his tendency to distrust, merely returned her gaze evenly; eyes narrowed beneath bushy eyebrows. Gloved fingers twitched uncomfortably close to the hilt of his axe, though the powerful warrior deemed her of little threat and did nothing more. His attentive stance – perched in his seat as if ready to pounce if she as much as blinked wrong – did not falter. "Good evening," she smiled, unfazed by the hostility to instead tilt her head in a short greeting.

Kíli shuffled off to gather a chair for his invited guest, leaving the remaining three in a stifling silence; she fumbled with the lute from one hand to another, while shifting her weight restively. His mouth twitched, yet his mind struggled to come up with anything worthwhile to say. Comment on her song? The peculiar wood her instrument was crafted from? _The weather_?

Dragging a chair from one of the other tables, Kíli returned once more.

With impeccable manners – and, quite frankly, very unlike his usual self – he offered the seat. "Here you go, Miss."

With another smile she sat down, folding her hands in her lap and quietly watched Kíli take the place next to Fíli. "It is very rare for Dwarves to visit this place," she commented airily. "Let alone offer to buy me a drink. What can I do for you, good sir?"

Blinking, Kíli tilted his head. "I merely repay you for a wonderful song."

"I see," she responded. "I shall gladly accept."

It did not take long for the barmaid to return, tray in hand. While she faltered briefly upon seeing the Dwarves, she quickly placed the pint of ale in front of the minstrel. "Enjoy!" Kíli paid, ordering another round for them as well; then he looked back to the woman at the end of the table, arms crossed over his chest.

"Though your tale was an unusual choice," he said in all seriousness. Fíli trailed a single finger along the rough, wooden edge of his seat; leaning back against the backrest he watched the room. The earlier loudness had stilled, and only a few remained by the fireplace. "A human and an Elf?" His wanderings stilled, and instead he proceeded to chip away tiny dry flakes while his gaze returned to the conversation. As she was preoccupied with Kíli, it gave Fíli the perfect opportunity to take in her features; prominent cheekbones, likely from a meager selection of food rather than natural beauty; a sun-touched nose and faint traces of healing across her upper lip. A thin, dull-looking knife hung at her belt. Shirt crumbled; tattered and patched sleeves.

Her fingers, idly fidgeting with the fabric of her skirt, were slender – nails short, clean – and well-kept.

"Did you not approve, sir?" She asked.

Kíli pulled his shoulders into a shrug. "I just believe one should never neglect the common folks; it is not only fair Elven maidens and heroic Men that through perilous journeys find a chance at love." The minstrel gave a thoughtful nod in understanding; taking a sip of ale, the edge rested against her mouth while the Dwarf continued. "If anything, upon my suggestion of a theme, should it not rather be one of my kin? A Dwarf and a fair maiden?"

"I fear I do not know tales of that kind," the woman smiled before lowering her tone of voice. A mischievous gleam sparked in her eye. "I find Dwarves much too unforthcoming in that area, and they tend to be reluctant to part with any such stories!" Fíli felt certain the lack of romantic gossips - let alone bold legends – of Dwarves and Men stemmed not from the their secretive ways of life, but rather the fact such encounters did not _happen_. He definitely did not doubt that the minstrel knew it as well. The barmaid returned, interrupting them momentarily while she placed foam-topped tankards in front of those lacking.

Another curious look was shot towards the minstrel before she disappeared into the throng of people once more.

"Rather than to entertain such a notion–," Fíli began without thought, startling even himself; she turned her gaze to him and he met it unwaveringly. He could feel Kíli watching him by his side. "–Unlikely as it is, I am much more interested in that cloak of yours." The minstrel's hands flashed to the green hemline, clutching it tightly between whitened knuckles, and worry marred her features. Immediately putting up his hands to placate her unease he smiled feebly, apologetically, at her.

The pleasant ease, previously displayed towards his brother, was nowhere to be seen as she regarded him cautiously.

"Was it a gift?"

She nodded. "Yes."

Fíli waited for her to elaborate, yet no further answer came. "You must have made good friends with them," he added with hesitation.

"It is very well made," Kíli added.

Stroking the material with a careful fondness, a small smile returned to her lips; as if recalling a memory. "I traveled from Anórien with a family of Dwarves. While we were passing through the Wold of Rohan bandits attacked us during the morning hours." Fíli recalled the blackened and bruised face; the cut, red and bloodied in sharp contrast to paleness. A shadow fell over her, however it vanished instantly and long before he could voice a question. "This cloak was a gift for saving them from a horrible fate, although I do not believe it is deserved."

This roused Dwalin to attention; the muscular warrior sat upright, dark eyes narrowing down on her, and she seemed to shrink further in on herself at the scrutiny. The thin chainmail beneath his tunic clinked with his every move. "Did _you_ defeat the bandits? How many were there?"

"F–four," she squeaked in reply. "But I only took care of one on my own."

Dwalin grunted. "Thought as much."

"What happened then?" Fíli cut in, sending a pointed look towards the other Dwarf though he kept his tone level. He suppressed the urge to shake his head; honed in many a battle, of course a warrior could not see the feat of strength in defeating _one_ opponent. But a woman alone against four? She should thank the Valar for sitting in front of them with so few bruises to show for it. _Alive_.

Her feet swished across the floor, back and forth as if to match her flickering eyes.

"I ..." She paused, swallowing, before lowering her gaze. "I killed one, and distracted the others long enough for my companions to reclaim their weapons."

Fíli realized how uncomfortable he was making her with his questions; he should not pry any further, but changing the subject abruptly felt equally offensive. "Is that how you received your injuries?" The confusion was clear on her face, and then he knew for certain; she did not recognize them from their brief encounter in May. "We have met once before," he explained, "My brother and I saw you at the lakeshore. You were looking out over Esgaroth, and your face was, well, pretty roughed up."

A faint crease appeared between her brows. The minstrel regarded them both, this time carefully, and her hazel orbs paused every so often; on the dark-blue tunic of rich fabrics, with golden threads richly embroidered along the hemlines; their weapons, beautiful scabbards and jeweled hilts. Khuzdul inscriptions ran along the scabbards' edges, snaking between engravings of wolf fangs and ivy leaves. They had been gifts from Dáin upon their much welcomed recovery after the Battle of Five Armies.

 _'_ _Beating both Wargs and Elves!'_ the Lord of the Iron Hills had barked, nearly breaking Fíli's bones all over in an embrace.

"Oh! Indeed, my Lord, my apologies." She bowed her head. Heat flashed across her cheeks, a scarlet flush evident of her embarrassment. "Forgive me, for I am terrible at remembering faces – and there have been so many here in Dale."

"We only recognized you due to the cloak," Kíli grinned in an attempt to ease her mortification, peering from the corner of his eye at Fíli. "My brother noticed our script on it, and it made quite the impression on him. In fact, he could hardly keep the cloak out of his mind these past few weeks!"

"I was merely _curious_ ," Fíli groused in indignation. "We do not easily part with such items, and it made me wonder."

The corners of her mouth tilted up, timid above the tankard once more pressed to her lips. When she had finished her drink, she allowed her restless fingers to drum lightly against the table. "I remember now. ' _If you consider going out to fish for gems from the beast's belly, I would suggest you did not,_ lad _',_ "she recited with a smile. She might not remember faces – but _words_ she unquestionably did. With every little detail vividly clear as the day they were spoken.

Fíli choked back a laugh.

Kíli, on the other hand, blanched.

"I had not taken a closer look before rashly speaking." He scratched his stubble beard, looking sheepish. "But at least the warning was true enough. You likely know well the vileness of dragons; their breath can turn you to cinders, and their blood will melt the flesh from bones. So really, it is not a good place to go swimming. Even if one can find precious gems in the lakebed."

The woman mulled over his words. "I have no interest in such things, nor the gold it could bring with it - especially not after a winged serpent has laid upon it." Shaking her head and allowing curls to tumble down, an almost unnoticeable shiver ran down her body.

Fíli's stomach turned to ice; his uncle's maddened lust for gold, the delusional paranoia that in the end drove a wedge through the Company – almost bringing with it the end of poor, helpful Bilbo. Yes, he knew all too well the sickness clouding sound minds. A wise man would turn his back on such gold.

"The hour is late," stated Dwalin, disturbing the silence. "We best leave soon if we are to reach the mountain before the midnight flames. The road will be difficult in this lacking light."

When Fíli looked out through the grimy windows he was met with darkness; during their stay in the warmth of the tavern, the sun had set over the western spurs and night time har claimed the streets of Dale. They would have to travel carefully lest injuring the ponies – or themselves for that matter.

Kíli opened his mouth to speak, likely to disagree, but Fíli placed a placanting hand on his shoulder. "Maybe it is best we return. We have lingered longer than we should have; uncle will be awaiting our return. He most likely has for the last couple of hours."

Fíli had never anticipated for his odd curiosity to bring them to where they were now.

He fished coins out from his pouch and gestured the barmaid over. The blonde girl immediately accepted the payment, cleared their table, and then left to find some change. Meanwhile Fíli stood to leave, more roughly than not pulling his brother up with him. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss, and your song was very beautiful. Even if there were no Dwarves in it," Kíli rushed to say before giving a bow. "May our roads cross again."

With a smile, she nodded. "I would like that."

She hesitated.

"My Lords ... This might just well be impudent of me, but perhaps I could ask a favor of you?"

"Certainly!" Kíli responded without pause.

"I cannot enter the mountain myself, but I would like to send a message to my companions inside. There has been no word since we parted ways, and I pray they have settled well. If I were to write a quick letter could you bring it for me?" She wrung her hands in the skirt. "If it is not too much trouble ..."

Fíli exhaled sharply. "It is not. Very well, I shall personally see to it that your letter reaches its destination."

Upon his words, her face lighted up and she gave him a bright smile of gratitude. "Thank you! I shall write it immediately," she said. Hastily looking around, it did not take long before the barmaid was sent away on yet another errand; this time for ink and parchment.

Her long, brown hair fell in front of her face while she scribbled away. Her handwriting, slanting, scrawled, was rushed and unpracticed, and it was a testament to how little she used the written word. The quill scratched roughly against the parchment, loud even in the noises of the tavern, for neither she nor the Dwarves spoke.

They sent Dwalin ahead to prepare the ponies, and the older Dwarf left without a single complaint. He was restless and eager to return to Erebor. And sooner the better if one was to ask him. Not that they did, of course, for the frown was answer enough.

Fíli waited quietly, patiently, and despite his curiosity made sure not to read the contents of the letter. It was personal – and not for his eyes to see. She had told them the names of her acquaintances; the blacksmith, Frár, and his family. His kind wife and lovely children. The way she spoke of them told him much; and she truly held them in high regard and he expected to do the same when meeting them.

He could not help but steal one small glance when she signed the letter, though ...

 _Ranel._


	12. Walking through the Night

Went on vacation to Japan for three weeks and was stuck with the worst wifi known to man, even though I had hoped and planned to get some writing done at least on the airplane to later upload. But here we go, instead. And of course the first half of my chapter was deleted ... again. Because I love computers and they love me. So very, very, _very_ much.

Thank you for the wonderful feedback to the last chapter! Was great to read the reviews whenever I managed to catch a beam of internet connection, so my thanks goes to all those that followed, favorited, and of course reviewed. While I have not been able to reply directly to you, please know that I've read and appreciated every single one of them.

Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter XII: Walking through the Night

* * *

A whinny carved through the nighttime quiet.

The smaller streets of Dale, leading the Dwarves further away from the inn, were bathed in shadows. An overcast sky smothered the stars, and when Fíli peered upwards the moon was but a hazy circle of silver. An eerie glow of light. The hour swiftly approached midnight. They were likely expected back at Erebor with impatience – perhaps even with a scolding word or two. But nonetheless he did not regret his choice in following the minstrel.

He had finally come to learn the story behind the Dwarf cloak that had unexpectedly caught his interest.

His strange curiosity had been quenched.

Brushing a hand against his tunic, he hovered briefly over the inner pocket where the letter was securely tucked away. The task he had accepted. They had bid her a pleasant evening, and the young woman had thanked them over and over. Gratitude radiated clear in her face.

Now he even knew her name ...

Unknowingly, the corner of his mouth tilted into a smile as he returned his gaze to the road. Perhaps he had been _too_ forthcoming in offering his assistance, but he saw no harm to come from him doing so. The strict rule set upon the entrance to the Lonely Mountain was to keep order; they could not allow just anyone to flock inside.

Not even a minstrel wishing to pay a visit to her companions.

It was already troublesome enough to find lodgings for all the Dwarven families eager to help in the restorations. Traders and performers, setting up stalls and attracting crowds? Not to mention the more unsavory kind that would likely slip inside if the watch was lessened? No, it would be much more than they were fit to handle – at least for now. Once the lower levels were clear of rubble and the mines running steadily, _then_ they could open the gates for more trade.

But one single letter could do no harm, and the minstrel merely wished to keep in touch with her companions. If Fíli had been in her shoes surely he would have asked the same. Fíli hoped he would have time tomorrow to seek out the blacksmith and his family, or at least be able to hand over the letter within the week.

The road ahead turned and forked, widening, and the darkened cobblestones became illuminated with the dancing light of torches.

Lit sconces hung from walls, lining the street, and turned the air warm against their faces. They were approaching the central part of Dale, where the broad roads led to and from the city. To his left, a faint white against the dark sky, he could see the spire of the Lord's mansion peaking above the roofs; soon they would be back to where they started earlier in the day.

Ahead, wobbling unsteadily from one foot to another, a pair of drunken workmen headed home. Slurred words were passed when the ponies clip-clopped by, though they did not appear to stem from ill intentions and the Dwarves spared little thought on it. When the road finally allowed it, Fíli pulled his pony up next to Kíli's and the brothers left the city side by side.

The guards at the gate knew their faces well and swiftly allowed them passage with a nod.

Crossing the bridge, planks creaking beneath the weight, the open plains stretched far into the distance. A clammy fog lay heavy over the swaying grass, bending with every stroke of wind tumbling down from over the mountain ridges. The view, beautiful in the daylight, was but a dull, unending sea of grey between them and their destination. It was somewhat disquieting, and so they turned from the sight and looked no further than the dusty stones below.

The path cut clear through, but as the mists drew close and enveloped them, it did not take long before the dampness soaked into their clothes. With the air smelling of earth and the fog gathering, it soon grew colder. Fíli drew his cloak tighter, pulling the hood down over his head until even his brow was covered. It did not take long before the hem was lined with grey drops, trickling down over his skin and into his beard.

Their vision was hindered, and so they carefully and slowly led the ponies forward. While the roads were well visited and kept, any loose stone or bump could snatch on a hoof. Fíli did not wish to break one of the ponies' legs just because he had delayed his departure. Holding the reins tightly in one hand, he patted the coarse mane comfortingly; his gentle pony tossed its head merrily in response and neighed softly. Unpertubed by the weather.

A roar rose in the distance, growing louder upon their approach.

Here Celduin's waters fed the lake, and where the two clashed white foam rose to life between large boulders. The lake winked out at them in the dimmed moonlight, glimmering through the hazy cloud cover. Stone pillars emerged through the fog ahead, marking the crossing and the only safe way spanning the rapids – unless one did not mind a swim through chilly snow-waters.

If one knew where to look they would then be able to see small runes chiseled into the stone, marking the border between the realms of Men and Dwarves. Its purpose was not a sign of warning, but served rather as a guiding post for any Dwarf-friend's keen eyes. _Protection_. Those who sought it would always find it within these lands.

High above the clouds parted, and the light of the silvery sphere filtered down. The stones shone clearly, a white shimmer in a sea of grey. Several other rocks would be lining the road towards the mountain; each a beacon for a weary traveler on a journey long and perilous.

The way leading to the Kingdom under the Mountain.

The road followed the shore for half a mile more, and often they stirred nesting birds into the air with loud caws and bulrushes fluttering beneath large wings.

Then the path bent north and the Lonely Mountain towered tall in the distance. Fíli rolled his rigid shoulders, the coldness seeping deep into his skin, and he flexed his gloved fingers. The injury in his shoulder vexed. He hoped someone had kept the fire burning in his chambers for, unless work awaited him, Fíli planned to immediately seek the comfort of his blankets and pillows upon return.

He stifled a yawn; Fíli would have gladly allowed his pony to lead the rest of the way back if not for his brother's odd antics, always springing to life when least expected – and even less desired. This moment was no different ...

"Rattling, clanking – can you hear it, brother?" Kíli spoke in the silence; voice low as he caught Fíli's questioning glance. The brown-haired Dwarf grinned wickedly and cocked an eyebrow. "The spirits stir the dead bones in the mounds ... A pale, icy light gleaming in their eyes." He pointed out into the mists, where the dark of night met the dark of the earth. "Minions of the Witch-king, reaching out through the fog for unsuspecting travelers. _Barrow-wights_!"

Shaking his head, Fíli sighed heavily before shooting Kíli a look. "Really? _Now_ is the time for that?"

"But I saw them!" The younger Dwarf argued, voice hushed into a frantic whisper, although with little conviction – mostly due to the grin he could not wipe from his face. Then, he whispered, "In there, in the mist. Shadowy figures made from dead bones."

"Should we tie you up and leave you here with them?" Dwalin's question trailed up from the front. The warrior had spent the ride in silence, keen eyes vigilant in a watch of their surroundings, and one hand gripped the handle of his axe tightly. But now he turned in his saddle to look back at them. "Barrow-wights and other spirits are no joking matter, lad, you should know that."

"Not to mention they only dwell between the Old Forest and the North-South Road," Fíli added good-naturedly, pointing to the west far beyond the plains. To lands far, far away. "Which of course isn't anywhere near here. You know that."

Pulling a face, Kíli huffed in exasperation and threw up his hands.

"Very well!" He exclaimed. "I merely found this silence uncomfortable; a little humour could shake off the dreadful weather, but you two grouches smothered any chance for that. So enjoy your sorry, drowned state as you so prefer. I hope you both catch a cold ..."

Fíli chuckled. "Perhaps another topic rather than evil wraiths of old would suit your purposes more?"

Rolling his eyes, Kíli agreed with a frown. "You wouldn't leave me out here either way."

"If you keep trying my patience you can be sure I will," Dwalin stated, once more shooting a glance out over the foggy plains. The wind rustled through the long grass, like sleak creatures swiftly brushing through the undergrowth towards them. A chill ran down Fíli's spine. "How do you even know what a Barrow-wight looks like? You haven't ever seen one."

"I read it in a book," Kíli responded proudly.

Dwalin, under his breath, then muttered, "I didn't know you could read ..."

Fíli's laugh echoed into the darkness for a long while after.

* * *

The road continued through the landscape, and they rode on for an hour more before yellow lights finally emerged in the mists. Two large braziers flanked the entrance, burning oil throughout the night; the flames stood tall against the darkened stones, sending flakes of ash high into the air, and shadowy figures patrolled back and forth with spears and shields.

A call rose up into the quiet as the lookout spotted their approach, breathing life into the guards once more. Nighttime visitors were rare; and seldomly welcome.

Dwalin held up a hand, shouting a response in return before wary archers took to the ramparts against hostile visitors. The wooden boards complained below the ponies when they crossed the drawbridge; Fíli nodded his greetings to the guards before they passed through the thick wall, stealing a last glance at the grey clouds before entering the cavernous expanse beyond.

As he had predicted, they were indeed expected and stableboys stood at the ready to take the animals off their hands. The great entrance, despite the late hour, was bathed in warm light; Fíli's damp clothes clung to his skin, uncomfortably, and he quickly unclasped his cloak. Water trickled onto the floor, pooling around his boots.

Kíli shook his head, sending droplets flying, before stretching aching muscles. "Let's not disturb uncle tonight. He's likely fast asleep by now," he said, already making his way further into the mountain's deep darkness. "It would be rude to disturb him."

Following close behind, Fíli was inclined to agree as the warmth had invited drowsiness into his heavy bones. He wanted nothing more than to sleep the entire night – and day – away. But at the same time, it was unlikely their uncle would close an eye without knowing his heirs were safe within Erebor's halls.

When the open spaces narrowed, and corridors and stone staircases led to the upper levels, the two princes bid Dwalin a good night. Whether the captain of the guard would return to his own chambers or report the happenings of the day, Fíli did not know; instead he grabbed his brother around the shoulders and steered him towards the royal quarters.

Their booted steps reverberated between the pillars, carved right out from the rock that stretched down from the roof. Solid stone, lined with torches and tapestries, and dark openings leading to new corridors and rooms in the underground maze.

But Fíli knew the way well.

The amount of guards on duty increased until one was stationed at every corner, armed and alert to every little movement and rustling in shadowed corners. Eyes, gleaming in the fire light, trailed the brothers' movement; though of course none questioned the late hour upon which the princes chose to visit their uncle.

And while his body felt heavy, reluctant to walk the opposite way from his own room; shoulder sending aching spikes down the length of his arm; he came to a halt in front of a pair of great, sturdy oak doors. Deep engravings covered the surface, intricate beyond any other wood-carvings found in Erebor.

Precious gems inlaid within the wood, creating an illusion of deep caverns and open skies; green forests and rolling rivers.

All that passed by these doors knew well who resided within. _Uzbad undu 'Urd_.

King under the Mountain.

The private study of Thorin Oakenshield. Interrupting the calmness of the hall, Fíli carefully knocked on the door. His brother muttered lowly about berry pies and a midnight hunger, but he, too, squared his shoulders when a deep voice reached them from beyond the door. " _Enter._ "

Pressing down the golden doorknob, cold in his hand, the pair stepped in.

Inside, the candles, unattended, had mostly died out and left the room in a dull glow; only the fireplace burned still behind a heavy desk across the floor. Piles of parchment created columns on the table, between tomes and books dusty with age; a serpent, molded in dark stone, served as a paperweight.

Its folded wings gleamed in the light, ruby eyes ablaze.

To begin with their uncle did not look up from his work, as his entire attention was fixed on a long note rolled out in front of him. Quill in hand. A tray of dinner perched dangerously close to the edge of the desk, almost completely untouched.

"Good evening, uncle," Fíli steadily greeted, hands clasped behind his back. His clothes were cold in the heat, the dampness subsiding yet the clammy feeling remained. "We have returned from Dale."

"We apologize for our lateness of the hour," Kíli chirped in, sounding abashed like no one else possibly could. "Some _unforeseen_ events came in our way." Even though he had played quite the part in the late arrival ... Fíli suppressed the urge to smack his brother over the back of the head.

At least until after they left their uncle's presence.

"Have a seat," Thorin's deep voice called them forward, the feathered end of the quill motioning to the upholstered, dark green chairs before the desk. The brothers needed not to be told twice, and shortly after Fíli sank down into the soft paddings and quietly awaited their uncle's attention.

The fire crackled, making shadows dance across the walls. Fíli loosened the roll of parchment, brought with him from the meeting with Lord Bard, and pulled it from his belt. Rolling it over in his hands, his eyes danced over the signs of battle before him.

While Thorin had never shied from a fight, it was only after the clash on the slopes of Erebor that white lines of scar tissue marred his features. The line of Durin had tethered on the brink of disappearance; and the leader of their company was nothing more than a blurred vision of bloody gashes and cuts when exhaustion claimed Fíli on the slopes before the mountain.

One especially deep scar traveled from beneath the dark hairline, splitting the eyebrow and carving, jagged sharply, to the left towards the ear. The blade had narrowedly missed Thorin's eye. But, if anything, the king's injuries only added to the reverence his subjects regarded him with; be they common miners and tinkers, blacksmiths and traders, even the lords and ladies of court.

A King who had given his all for his people.

"Tell me then–," Thorin began, finally turning his gaze upon his nephews; deep-set blue eyes regarded them without betraying thought nor feeling. The quill's tip clicked against the marble ink pot. "–how is the state of Dale?"

Fíli cleared his throat.

"The masons will soon finish the last work on the ramparts and outer walls, and they can then return their attention to Erebor's defenses."

More than thirty Dwarves currently put years of expertice to use in the city of men; a workforce they, too, could use in the rebuilding of the mountain. But the defenses of Dale could not be compared to the rock fortress, and Thorin would not leave his closest allies open to an attack.

"The spring barley has suffered some due to the great downpours during May, but it should not stop the harvest come next month," Fíli continued his report dutifully, listing off the points of discussion previously held between the princes and the lord of Dale. "Bard holds true to his promise and will trade half the crop to the prices agreed."

Thorin nodded thoughtfully, resting his elbows on the table as he leaned forward; shadows fell over his face, the orange firelight burning brightly. The king's piercing eyes danced from one Dwarf to the other, before they settled on Fíli once more. "And gathering these news warranted a stay stretching long past midnight, I assume?"

A pregnant pause hung heavy in the air. Neither brother knew how to respond under their uncle's scrutiny, and Fíli scratched his cheek sheepishly before clearing his throat in a hoarse cough. But it was the younger Dwarf that finally broke the silence.

"It is one thing to have reported what lords and counselors see. But to see it for yourself, walk amongst the people and through the city streets, that is when you truly know the state of the world."

An eyebrow raised slightly, the only telltale sign of Thorin's astonishment, furrowed the brow of the king before he laced his fingers on the desk. Fíli peered towards his brother, likewise surprised, yet it was not without some relief that Kíli knew how to respond. He, on the other hand, found himself speechless; the truth could not be revealed unless he would suffer mortal embarrassment.

"And _what,_ then, did you see?" Thorin pressed.

"Beggars," Kíli said.

The corner of his mouth tilted into a wry grin, gaze flickering to his older brother.

"Traders," Fíli added, pointedly.

"That one thief, as well."

"Livelihoods blossoming."

"Drunken men."

"Minstrels and merriment," Fíli said with finality, kicking the chair leg below the table with his boots, making Kíli jump in the seat. Whatever game the younger Dwarf was playing at, he would certainly have none of it.

" _A_ minstrel," the brown-haired Dwarf mumbled grumpily.

"Dale faces its share of struggles, but it is not something they cannot handle."

Thorin rose from his chair, the heavy cloak rustling over the floor as the king made his way around the desk; with outstretched arms, motioning for his nephews to stand with him, he spoke. "Perhaps next time you will not send your personal guards ahead–" The brothers quickly came to their feet just as he placed his hands on both their shoulders. "–or perhaps you should rather go drinking _within_ the mountain?"

Spluttering for words, ears burning, they scrambled for an excuse yet came up with nothing beneath the heavy weight placed upon them.

The King under the Mountain squeezed their shoulders with affection.

"Sleep well, my sister-sons."

* * *

Soon after leaving their uncle's study, Fíli then bid his brother a good night – and a quick warning to not so much as breathe a word about the minstrel. To _anyone_. Unless he wished to be pummeled by the blunt side of a sword at their next practice.

Kíli had merely laughed and disappeared down the hall.

But of course his brother would never betray his truth, Fíli knew that all too well. And so, without worry, he closed his door and slid the lock into place with a soft _click._ A dull light lay heavy on the room; the embers smoldered within the ashen wood of the fireplace, a deep orange barely enough to illuminate his path across the floor.

Slipping off his damp cloak on his way to relight the flames, he flung it across one of the upholstered chairs, leaving it for the morning light. Crouching, his fingers curled around the icy cold fire iron and soon yellowy red tongues licked up and into life; eagerly devouring the dry logs.

Fíli sat for a while, peering into the fire. Brow creased and mind lost deep in thought, while warmth slowly seeped back into his skin. The numbness retreated, leaving only pricklings in the very tips of his fingers until they, too, disappeared.

Then his hand found his breast pocket.

The letter was untouched by the dampness, luckily, and the parchment glowing as he turned it over in the light. "A Dwarven prince naught but a messenger for a mere minstrel," he mused thoughtfully, smiling faintly at the idea. "Surely songs could be written from such strange nonsensicality just as well as stories of elven princesses can."

He placed the letter on a free space on the desk.

Fíli loosened the belt and slipped off the heavy sword; while hanging it from the weapon stand, his free hand found the daggers from within his clothes. He looked at the weapons, once more feeling a tremble run down his arm.

They would have peace in the region now. The orcs had been defeated; the foul creatures slunk away to their hidden caves in the Grey Mountains, licking wounds and cowering in fear. He would not need his weapons ...

 _Not again._

The thick woolen blankets were pulled out, and soon warmth enveloped him into his very core.

Darkness swirled beneath the stone ceiling, broken by the crackling flames dancing, and Fíli rubbed his brow. He closed his eyes, inhaling the smoky air, and allowed the day's images to pass across his eyelids in a swift blur.

He wished morning would come soon.

And the day following ... and the next after that.

Until duty called him back to the city of men.

Sleep claimed his tired body, but Fíli could faintly hear the minstrel's voice, singing softly to him of Beren and Luthíen; of their immortal love surpassing even the wrath of Morgoth and the passing of time. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips just as he pulled the covers close.


	13. The Blacksmith's Family

Seriously thanks for the feedback as always!

Also, since I do not believe in my knowledge in Khuzdul, there will only be used phrases and words occasionally throughout the entire story; so whenever there are only Dwarves present within Erebor, they will obviously be speaking in Khuzdul, but it will be written in English to make things a whole lot easier on me.

I haven't written this much dialogue in _ages._

Enjoy!

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter XIII: The Blacksmith's Family

* * *

When morning dawned it was not long before Fíli stirred from a fretful slumber.

The air was cold as the fire had lived and died during the night; he watched, with half-lidded eyes, the arching grey slipping into black shadows on the ceiling. No sounds reached the chamber through the solid rock walls, lined with heavy tapestries, and so he lay there for many long moments. Thinking, throat dry.

But as he waited – _tested_ – to see if sleep would claim him once more, Fíli found himself wide awake. Shifting, and rolling over; flipping the heavy woolen covers until they were rolled up next to him. He could not postpone the day any longer. And so he came to his feet, stretching carefully to avoid the still aching injury, before crossing the cold floor with long and purposeful strides.

Streams of light, pale yellow beams, filtered through the small openings above; keen eyes peered into the dimness, hands knotted together for warmth, as he came to a pause at his desk. The flat sheet of paper glowed white and held his gaze, and so he watched the letter with little idea of what to do with it. Brow furrowed in deep contemplation until he heaved a sigh.

 _A blacksmith,_ he thought, knowing well where the Dwarf family was to be found. Following the sloped corridor leading from the marketplaces, wide enough for carts and waggons heading back and forth, he would reach the workplaces of every craftsman in the city. In the houses cut from the mountain, where the road to the entrance and the railways from the mines met. Following the familiar sounds of anvils and hammers; bellows and sizzling of heated metal.

It would be no trouble to pay the Dwarf family a brief visit during his princely duties. An inspection of the workers' well-being? Albeit it sounded most of all like a poor excuse – which, in fact, he was well aware – Fíli had taken it upon himself to deliver the letter. And as such he would fulfil his duties without complaint. Having made up his mind he dressed quickly.

Strapping on his weapons, the daggers and the sword; and tugged the letter securely into a silk-lined pocket.

Then he left the room.

The corridor was brightly lit, torches aflame to fill the air with golden warmth, and Fíli paused as his gaze landed on a figure. It was sitting crouched on the stone floor, head rested against pulled-up knees, leaving only dark brown hair sticking out. How long his brother had been waiting outside his room, Fíli did not know, but neither was he much interested in knowing the reason as to _why_.

Proven time and time again, the results would likely put Fíli in heaps of trouble. He carefully, quietly, pressed the door shut behind him. But the soft _click_ echoed and amplified down the hall, until he felt every single Dwarf within the mountain could hear it.

Stiffening into attention, Kíli's head shot up and immediately trained on the older Dwarf. "I've been waiting for you!"

Fíli pulled a face, yet soon after with a sigh greeted Kíli. "What brings you here this early, dear brother? The day has barely begun, and the sun yet risen above the valley." He stepped closer and offered his assistance with an outstretched arm; they clasped hands and Kíli was pulled to his feet with little effort.

The younger Dwarf dusted off his trousers and shirt.

"I had a hunch you would be skulking about this early morning. Delivering letters and all," Kíli mused, a grin clear across his features. From the corner of an eye Fíli shot him a look; choosing to ignore the jab he instead began down the corridor.

Kíli followed.

"Am I not right?"

"No," he responded curtly, "I was planning on an early breakfast."

"And _then_ delivering a letter?"

A servant fluently stepped aside, mid-bow, when the princes passed and the conversation was put on hold; they nodded a greeting good-naturedly, but otherwise minded their own affairs. Once more out of earshot the oldest brother answered. "You are awfully committed in my affairs. Do you have nothing else to pass your time with?"

"I take a shared responsibility in making sure the letter is properly handed over."

"Of course you do," Fíli responded dryly.

Making their way through the mountain, they followed the familiar sound of life until they were no longer alone. The corridor opened, widening into a large chamber through great oaken doors. A low murmur of voices hung heavy in the air, mixed into an incomprehensible mash of noise. Rows upon rows of pillars continued ahead into the dimness, holding up the roof lost in the shadows high above. Carvings adorned the stones, cut in deep circlets and swirls, and lit by hundreds of sconces.

Tapestries hung on both sides of the room, in vibrant colors and dyes brought in from all over Middle-Earth. A large, open fireplace roared with life on a dais – the length of five full grown horses – placed in the centre of the grand hall. The burning fire was shielded by metal screens and did little to light its surroundings.

It did, however, create a stifling warmth.

Rolling heat brushed against his face when he entered.

Servants hurried about with trays, setting and clearing wooden tables with breakfast, and many Dwarves were already settled in; most were soldiers, either half-asleep from the night shift or clear-eyed and ready for the daily patrols. Great oval shields rested against the benches, spears and bows put aside, while mugs and meats were passed around.

Pages and couriers slipped in and out of the crowd, bringing with them messages or running other errands for their lords and ladies. Dwarflings tumbled about in play; the older ones creating mischief beneath the tables, tying shoelaces together or pilfering pastries where no one was looking.

The grand hall was sensibly positioned in the very heart of the mountain.

Here passages and corridors led to every corner, level, and deep in Erebor. To the marketplaces, the forges and mines; the barracks and training grounds. Palaces, academies and foundries. Several hundreds of mouths were fed here daily, and the kitchens bustled with life and work from early morning to late night. Carts upon carts of firewood and coal was brought in; not to mention cows and chickens, boars and swine; carrots and potatoes, grains and wheat from the surrounding farmlands. Salted fish from as far away as the Gulf of Lune.

All who pulled their weight and did a hard day's work were welcome to dine in the hall.

Most often it was soldiers, starved for food and company, that gathered here.

But amongst the polished armor, helmets, and weapons; swords, and bows and quivers; Fíli also spotted noble families. The grand hall was often used for more unofficial business; gossips and intrigues, settling the outcasts of high society; dinner invitations and what gowns to wear and not to wear. They stood out in silken dresses and tunics woven with silver and gold treads.

Gradually they advanced, but although Fíli exchanged a nod with some of the men seated, they did not slow their steps. The voices quieted around them, making his booted steps clear in his ears. As of late, Fíli seldomly dined with the men and took his breakfast at his desk. Rarity was to him now a dinner without work.

He had missed the thrum of life.

Doors swung open as servants carried in food, revealing the large kitchens beyond. Massive stoves, running the length of floor to ceiling, billowed smoke and heat into a mesh of pots and pans. It was a hectic jumble, orderly chaos with smells and noises.

While Dwarves cherished their crafts; the blazing furnaces and the deepest depths of the mines; they truly came together around food. Laughter welled up. Plates were passed around and ale sloshed with the shouts of toasting. The finer ladies enjoyed their wine and daintily picked at their favored foods, while great amounts of roasted meat were devoured as logs in a fire by bulky warriors.

An empty table caught his eye, and he slipped into an unclaimed seat on the bench.

It did not take long before full plates were placed in front of them, and tankards foam-topped shone golden in the sconce-light. Fíli could feel eyes on him, hungering to strike a conversation with the princes of Erebor, but propriety kept them at bay; one was not to approach unless first invited – much to his relief.

He wished to enjoy his morning meal in jovial peace.

"So," Kíli spoke with a mouthful of seasoned potatoes. He swallowed, then proceeded, "Did you bring the letter?"

If only they were not in the presence of others, Fíli would have smacked his brother so that his undoubtedly empty skull would have reverberated throughout the hall. Instead he exhaled sharply, eyes flickering to their surroundings. "Fine! _Yes,_ I did bring it with me. Are you satisfied now?"

Kíli shrugged, less than enthusiastic. "I guess."

Burying his face in his hands, Fíli pressed hard against his brow and prayed to Mahal for patience – seemingly something he did far too often as of late. He knew there would be no way around now, and the younger Dwarf would latch on to him for the rest of the day. A less than silent observer, judging his every move and action; spewing snarky remarks and irksome pokes, knowing well it would rile up the older brother.

How Fíli looked forward to it ...

The princes finished their meal, pushing aside their plates, and leisurely enjoyed the last droplets of ale in the warmth and mild light of the great hall. Fíli could feel the press of the letter in his pocket. His fingers curled around the tankard, drumming absently.

His gaze glanced out over the crowd, lingering on familiar faces and nodding his acknowledgments. He knew many from his time living in Ered Luin; Firebeards and Broadbeams, and many of Durin's Folk previously exiled by the dragon Smaug, now once more returned to dwell beneath the mountain. Back when he had been just an heir of Durin, not the future King under the Mountain ...

The heavy air of smoke and smells filled his nostrils as he inhaled deeply. He took one last, long sip of ale, then rose to his feet. Kíli peered up but soon after mirrored his actions. "Are we going now? So soon? You certainly are eager."

Fíli shot him a dry look. "If you continue your incessant need to be annoying, I _will_ tell uncle you are more than willing to keep the ladies of court company. In fact I will tell him you _insisted._ "

His brother blanched, all color draining from his face as he held up both hands in surrender. "Peace, brother, I yield."

"I deem that wise," Fíli mused.

The princes stepped through the opened doors side by side, a most welcome quiet passing between them.

* * *

While most knowledge from the olden days was lost in time; where axes could slice through any metal and the Mithril mines of _Khazad-dûm_ granted armor impossible to penetrate; the blacksmiths of Erebor worked relentlessly in honing their skills. The cavern, in which Fíli and Kíli found themselves, had become the gathering point for all Dwarven masters of the Third Age.

Houses of dark stone, with balconies and large windows, ran along the cavern walls. Here lived the families close to their workplaces, and often a blacksmith's child – be they boy or girl – would in time follow in the same footsteps as the father. Clangs filled the open space; jarring on the ears of those unaccustomed to the unchanging sounds.

Large crucibles filled with molted iron gleamed red in the far end of the cavern, and many Dwarves operated the heavy chains, pulling and slacking in order to control the turns.

Fíli watched as the scorching hot metal welled from an open hatch, spilling out into a thin mold. Steam took shape, billowing out as tendrils of grey fog ran across the floor. He knew the purpose of the metal plates; they would be shifted onto waggons and carted off to be used in the fortifications of the entrance.

Meanwhile, many other blacksmiths had set up shops in their own homes, tinkering with smaller items.

The princes continued further in, following the road past houses and open squares. Fountains and sculptures. Lamps, burning oil, hung from the cavern roof and made the polished stones shine beneath their feet. Although the sounds spoke of the hard labor, the sights showed the life also present. Woven carpets hung out to dry in the warm air, thick, brightly colored in reds and yellows; toys strewn about and left until their next use.

A young Dwarrowdam perched on a bench, scrubbing away on a washboard and with water splashing about in her rigorous movements; a cot, blankets wiggling about, at her side and within arm's reach.

Fíli approached, clearing his throat carefully to make his presence known; hands clasped behind his back, he gave a smile when she turned her attention to him. They were immediately recognized, but he swiftly motioned for her to remain seated. "Your highness!" She squeaked, fumbling to wipe her hands in her skirt. "How can I be of assistance?"

"We were hoping you could offer us directions," he said pleasantly, "–for we are looking for a Mister Frár, and have been told he works as a blacksmith."

For a moment her brow furrowed in thought, gaze turned sideways in an attempt to remember the name. "Frár? Oh yes, arrived little more than a month ago with his family. I know of him," she responded; then she pointed further down to where the road forked. "He lives just off to the side. Fifth or sixth house to the left if I'm not much mistaken."

Inclining his head, Fíli thanked her for her time.

He could feel the Dwarrowdam's eyes on them as they followed the road, curious as to their purpose, and the story of their visit would likely be shared with both husband and neighbors; _princes_ at her very own doorstep! But soon they turned and were out of sight. The new street looked much like the previous; and he counted each house they passed, separated by low stone-enclosures barely reaching his chest. Ahead, a pair of small legs dangled back and forth from the wall, and the Dwarfling spared them no attention as Fíli paused next to her.

 _The fifth house on the left_ , he thought and glanced to the one next to it; the lights in the sixth house were out, seemingly none were at home, and so he looked back to the child. If luck was with him, _this_ was the right house. Her legs had stopped, but she showed no other indication to have noticed them. The brown-haired Dwarf stepped closer, then leaned against the wall; a grin widened across his features.

"What a pretty doll you have there," Kíli commented.

She mumbled a thanks, chubby fingers fussing with the straw-doll's red dress as if to make it look presentable.

"What's her name?"

"Nelly," she answered, now tugging at her bangs in a child's timid behavior. Clearly feeling some discomfort, yet not enough to shy away from them, she glanced curiously towards the pair of princes; first at Kíli, a small smile tugging at her lips, but then her gaze rested on Fíli. She turned the doll towards him. "Would you like to say hello to her?"

"It would be my pleasure," he smiled and gave a deep bow. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Lady Nelly."

The child's smile widened a notch, but then she shook her head. "Nelly is no Lady. She's a friend."

"But with such a pretty dress, surely she could be nothing less than a princess!" Kíli stated incredulously, gasping. "Which would make you a fine noblewoman to take care of her, am I not right?" This earned him a giggle. "Tell me, fair maiden, what is your name? Without a doubt it is as beautiful as the princess' own."

"Lóna," she mumbled shyly. "At your service."

The brothers exchanged looks.

"Fíli–"

"–and Kíli–"

"–at yours," they both finished in chorus and with matching bows, much to the child's delight.

Lóna clapped her hands in excitement, beaming at one brother to the other.

Fíli took a step closer. "Would you happen to know where a Dwarf named Frár lives?"

"Yes," she nodded, then looked back towards her house. "He's my _adad_."

Hiding his eagerness, glad to have found the right place without any trouble, he smiled at the little Dwarfling. "Is your father home by chance?"

She shook her head. "But _amad_ is. Do you want me to get her?" Before Fíli had a chance to voice his consent, Lóna had already jumped from the wall, doll securely tugged beneath her arm, and darted through the door. The brothers waited politely, glancing about at the empty street with subtle interest. Somewhere further down the road the soft tune of a fiddle weaved into the air, drowned out by the overwhelmingly ear-splintering anvils.

The door was pushed open, and a Dwarrowdam appeared with Lóna marching ahead, pulling at her mother's apron in her hurry. "Slow down, little one," she spoke affectionately, yet none the less indulged the insistent tugs of her daughter. But when she raised her gaze, eyes falling on the princes, she froze mid-step and yanked Lóna to a halt. "Your Highnesses!" She flushed. "Nola, at your utmost service."

She curtsied deeply, keeping her head lowered and waited for them to address her.

Fíli, feeling flustered, quickly broke the silence. "Madam, please raise your head," he said.

The Dwarrowdam rose, yet her hands fidgeted with her apron in her unease. She had likely never had royalty standing outside her home, let alone imagined she would ever, even in her wildest dreams, come face to face with members of Thorin Oakenshield's company. He had not meant to put her on edge, and he attempted to smile reassuringly – although the paleness of her face marked his efforts to be of little use.

"We are not here on official business, but rather to hand over something to your husband." He pulled the letter from his pocket and held it up for her to see. "May we enter?"

Still rather flabbergasted, the Dwarrowdam stepped aside and motioned towards the entrance. "Of course, your Highness, do come in."

Passing the pair, Fíli entered the house and found himself in a small, packed but homely living room. Lamp-light bathed the room in a dim glow; a pot bubbled away over the stove, the lid rumbling, and the warm air smelled of freshly baked bread. He stepped further inside, allowing his brother space, and soon after the Dwarrowdam and her daughter slipped inside.

"If you'd please," she waved towards the round table in the middle of the room, "–have a seat."

"Thank you," Fíli responded. He pulled out a chair and settled; the wood was old, nicked and worn down from time and use, but well-kept. They had likely brought it with them when they returned to Erebor. A vase, holding boldly colored cup-shaped flowers, was placed in the middle. The Dwarrowdam, _Nola_ , stood to the side; unsure of what to do next. The Dwarfling was nowhere in sight.

Kíli, too, sensed her discomfort and – glancing about the room – spoke his interest. "I see many items native to the Blue Mountains. Did you live there previously?"

"Ah, well ... yes," she stumbled for words, wringing the apron between her hands. "–but the last years we spent on the road. My husband worked some in Belfalas. We were in Dol Amroth when we heard the news of the dragon's demise. Of course we packed our belongings immediately and returned to Erebor." She stepped across the room towards a second door. "May I offer you something to drink? Ale? Wine? I do have water boiling for tea, as well," she offered.

"Tea would be most welcome," Kíli said.

With a nod, she picked up the pot from the stove and disappeared through the door.

Soon after they could hear the clanging of plates and cutlery, marking Nola busy at work. Meanwhile Fíli stole another look about the Dwarves' home; he rarely paid such unofficial visits to their people, least of all stepping foot into their private rooms. Pillows lined the broad windowsills, creating additional seating arrangements; crates and shelves with thongs and hammers lined one wall, with broken bellows and mending-tools scattered across a small table in the corner.

Children's books stood stacked close to the stove, and a small, open chest revealed heaps of dolls and clothes.

A weapon-stand stood by the door, and here two axes rested close at hand.

Fíli shifted in his seat, voicing his appreciation when the Dwarrowdam returned. Jugs of mint tea was placed in front of them both, soon followed by a basket of biscuits; Nola carefully pulled out a chair and sat down promptly. While he wished to know more about the family, Kíli on the other hand preoccupied himself with the warm beverage and sniffed with satisfaction.

"Do you happen to know when Mister Frár returns?" Fíli asked, ignoring his brother's antics.

"My husband and son have been putting the last finish on an order throughout the night. They should be returning soon." She answered. "May I inquire about your visit, my Lord?"

Fíli slipped the letter across the table to her. "A mutual acquaintance asked us to deliver this to you and your husband."

Turning the letter over in her hands, curiosity painted vividly across her features, she returned her questioning gaze to Fíli.

"She traveled with you from Minas Tirith, if I am not mistaken?" He elaborated. "A minstrel by the name of Ranel." Upon hearing the name, Nola's face lit up in recognition and delight, yet long before she could put her feelings into words, the tiny Dwarfling emerged from another chamber and dashed to the table. _Tap, tap, tap, tap!_

Barely able to poke her nose above the wooden edge, the small child clambered into a chair.

"Ranel?" She asked, eyes lit with unveiled excitement.

Her mother quickly stilled her, placing a hand calmly on the child's shoulder. "She was indeed our companion on our journey, and we parted ways close to Dale. We had not received word from her since." Her hands smoothened the letter over the table. "We knew not she was an acquaintance of your Highnesses."

Fíli cleared his throat. He could not quite tell the Dwarrowdam the _complete_ story, lest he wished to mortally humiliate himself. "Our paths crossed upon several occasions in Dale, and our conversation fell upon your family."

"How is she?" Nola asked.

Small hands reached across the table, fingers sneaking over the wood while glances were shot towards the Dwarrowdam. Kíli, elbow leisurely rested on the table, looked towards the child and, with his free hand, subtly pushed the biscuits closer.

"She has no trouble earning a living," the younger brother said. "Her songs bring many to the tavern where she resides. In fact, I would think her voice is far more suited at court than between drunken men."

Lóna chewed quietly, large eyes watching them with interest.

Shifting in his seat, eyes on the folded letter, Fíli was stuck with restlessness; was his duty not complete?

The letter had found its rightful owner, and he did not need to linger while they read the contents.

Surely work awaited him.

He swiftly finished the tea, hot in his mouth with spices and warmth, and motioned to rise. "Perhaps it is best we be on our way again. Thank you for your hospitality," he said kindly, inclining his head. "We shan't be taking up any more of your time, Lady Nola."

Kíli opened his mouth to argue, but Fíli silenced him with a single look.

His task was done. Now he needed not concern himself with the minstrel anymore.

"There really is no rush, your Highness," Nola interjected as she, too, stood. As if hearing her own tone, fretful she might have sounded insistent, she lowered her voice as she continued. "My husband and our family owes her a great deal, and our children care much for her. Frár would surely like to thank you personally for delivering Ranel's message. Will you not stay a while longer?"

He hesitated, confliction pulling at his gut tightly, for certainly he understood her view. Dwarven customs and honor meant their departure now would break all decorum; for the Dwarrowdam, she had not properly seen to her guests nor expressed her gratitude. And they would turn down an offered courtesy upon which they had first accepted. Rubbing his beard, Fíli's lips were pulled thin in quiet thought.

"Perhaps some lunch?" She offered hopefully.

"Lunch sounds wonderful," Kíli agreed from the side, still firmly remaining in his seat with little evidence of him even considering getting up.

Suppressing a sigh of defeat, the oldest prince nodded shortly. "I accept the offer. But I do hope we are not interrupting your day."

"No, no. Not at all," she fussed, "I do enjoy company."

And so, having returned to his seat once more, Fíli had his mug refilled and watched his brother set the table. While Nola passed out plates and goblets, setting down bread, butter, and cheese; Kíli assisted the little Dwarfling. With a face drawn into a somber mask, never betraying the mirth pressing on, the prince placed a tiny fork and knife in front of the doll. "For you, my Lady," he said solemnly.

"Don't forget to fill her glass," the girl reminded him.

"Oh, yes. Right away." At that point it took his combined willpower not to laugh out loud. Fíli, upon creating eye contact with Kíli, cocked an eyebrow; his brother seemed unsure, glancing from the very small toy glass stuck between his fingers to the jug of wine on the table. He had been set on an impossible quest.

"You should not keep a lady waiting," the light-haired Dwarf remarked.

He received a heated glare in return.

The front door clicked open and a figure stepped inside, saving Kíli from his predicament. Both brothers looked up upon the newly arrived; eyes widened and shifted from one to the other, mouth opened and closed; no words came out. Then the door was firmly shut closed again. "Lóni is home!" Lóna called out to her mother, oblivious to what had just transpired.

A panicky voice reached them through the door. " _Father, there are_ princes _in the living room!_ "


	14. Return to Dale

I guess all I can say is hello (and apologies for all those that hoped for an update just a bit quicker than this). I'm currently trying to get from one point in the story to the next, but I'm stuck in the middle and it's pretty darned hard to write the way I want it. But oh well, it's a wall I must climb!

Do enjoy the chapter. It's a little in the short side but I really wanted to post an update.

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter XIV: Return to Dale

* * *

It proved to be a difficult trial for the two princes to not outright laugh at the strained conversation, reaching them from beyond the closed door. The young Dwarf ardently attempted to persuade his father, voice but a high incoherent ramble of what he had witnessed upon entering the home; likely from the sheer shock of finding the heirs of Durin sitting leisurely in their living room, staring back at him as he had returned from work.

While one Dwarf sounded close to panicking, the other seemed much closer to losing his patience. "Calm down, son, and speak plainly - or I will be forced to dunk your head in a barrel with this ruckus you are making. Now either explain calmly or cease to speak at all." Fíli shot a glance towards his brother, neither knowing when or how to properly introduce themselves in the peculiar situation.

"Do you think we should ..." Fíli gestured to the door while the corners of his mouth tilted into a grin. "Well, you know. _Assist_."

Kíli took a long swig from his now lukewarm tea, eyebrows scrunched together in a mixture of mirth and slight bafflement. But his only response to the question was a shrug of the shoulders and an incomprehensible mumble. A brief silence followed, where no Dwarf – be that on the inside and on the outside – spoke.

The logs in the fireplace crackled and popped in the quiet.

Above the orange flames a pot of water boiled, making the brass lid move in a wobbly dance of clanking. In the distance they could hear the ever constant hammering of the forges, and finally the pitter-patter of small feet as Lóna skipped over to the door. The Dwarfling struggled at first to reach the doorknob and then proceeded, using a great deal of her weight, to pull it open.

"Adad! Nadad!" She smiled and then, displaying the blatant unawareness only a child could possess, pointed inside with enthusiasm. "We have visitors. Come, quickly." The oldest Dwarf, bushy browed and with a full dark beard, picked up his daughter before fully stepping into his home; the large, burly frame spoke of a warrior's character. Broad shoulders filled with strength and eyes that, ever so inconspicuously, swept the room for enemies before settling on the princes.

Yet at his belt hung not a sword nor an axe, but instead a different set of tools. Fine chisels of different sizes, a hammer, and a pair of rough working gloves dotted with blackish grey sooth from work. Before them stood the blacksmith, Frár. Fíli came to his feet; the scraping of a chair across the floor told him that his brother had done the same.

Settling the young child on his hip, dark eyes regarding the guests with a quiet calm, the blacksmith gave a deep bow. As he stood once more he spoke with a voice very much akin to their own uncle's. "Welcome, princes of Durin, to our home. I am Frár, at your service."

Both brothers mirrored his actions.

"We thank you for your hospitality, Mister Frár," Fíli said as he clasped his hands behind his back. "My apologies for paying your family a visit without prior notice, but we had to make good of a promise made to a mutual acquaintance. Your wife is a most gracious hostess, and she was kind enough to offer a light meal."

The Dwarf gestured politely for them to return to their seats, while his youngest child tugged insistently at his braids to gain his attention. " _Adad_ , they came with a letter from Ranel," she explained eagerly and, wriggling in her father's grip, attempted to reach the sealed parchment on the table. "I want to know what it says. Can we read it?"

"Did they now?" Frár's firm gaze never strayed from the princes, not even as he pulled out a chair at the table. The blacksmith took everything in stride, showing no real indication of astonishment at their presence; it was a strange and unusual display of calm, but in no sense was the reaction unwelcome to Fíli. He much prefered when people did not brew up a fuss. "Surely your highnesses did not need to go through such troubles, coming all the way here for such a mundane task that a squire could have handled without mishaps."

Fíli lowered his head slightly in acknowledgement, knowing well they had plenty of servants to carry out such assignments; but he could not help but feel a sense of apprehension if someone else was to deliver the minstrel's letter.

He suppressed a frown.

"A promise is nonetheless a promise, do you not agree? It is upon my honour to see it carried through to completion," Fíli explained, "My brother and I both gave our word to deliver the letter to your family, and so now we have fulfilled our duty."

With a thoughtful nod of agreement, Frár turned to his son; the younger Dwarf had yet to enter the room further and was instead lingering by the door, uncertainty clear on his face despite obvious awe at the princes' presence. He appeared younger than both Fíli and Kíli, likely only just turned battle ready and not yet fully of age; there were youthful lines around his eyes and a lankiness to his limbs, but also signs of strength in his shoulders. "Be a good lad and fetch your mother, would you, for I believe she would certainly wish to read the letter as well."

"Yes, of course, father."

The Dwarf gave a hurried, deep bow at Fíli and Kíli before scurrying off to the kitchen, where sounds of pots and pans could be heard from his mother's bustling preparations. "I apologise for my son's uncouth behaviour," Frár spoke, smoothening his beard with a sigh; he twirled a bead between his rough fingers while settling the young Dwarfling in his lap. "Unfortunately Lóni forgets his manners when he is overly excited, I fear."

Understandingly, Fíli of course accepted the apology and found the younger Dwarf's actions to be of little insult. If not for his own title he would have cared even less. He had previously found forced deference stifling back in Ered Luin, and it was not about to change just because they had found a new place to call home.

"No matter," he waved off the blacksmith's concerns.

Bowing and scraping to people born from different parents should not command indisputable authority.

It was _earned_.

The Dwarrowdam reappeared in the door with her son following close behind, carrying another tray laden with food that they quickly placed upon the table. New plates were handed out, glasses were filled with a golden sweet-smelling liquid, and finally the family each found a place around the table. Lóna shuffled from her father's arms, seeking out her mother – and the caramelized berries close by – while the Dwarrowdam invited them to dig in.

They gratefully accepted.

The meal was rather homely and more than anything it brought on memories of his own mother's cooking; bread rolls baked with nuts and dried berries, served with slices of ham, salted butter, and hard-boiled eggs. There was even a bowl of strawberries; a rather pricey commodity from the Erebor markets, and Nola had likely bought it for something important. With a pair of princes in her home, though, there would be no better – nor proper – time to serve them.

Fíli hid a smile when he saw the small Dwarfling's face lit up, eyes turning saucer-round as she gaped at the berries. It would be almost cruel to even taste them. Once more, as covertly possible, Kíli nudged the bowl across the table while reaching for the butter, all the while shooting a knowing glance to his brother.

Upon bringing the cup up in a toast, thanking their hosts for a most welcome meal, the golden beverage turned out to be fermented honey and water, spiced with cinnamon and cloves – traditional mead served in the Blue Mountains to welcome guests.

The sweet smell soon filled the room, mixing in with the crackling wood and roasted bread.

There was only little talk amongst the gathered Dwarves, as neither part had much to say to the others. It proved a clear reminder to Fíli that he now lived in an entirely different world; before their quest to retake Erebor he had been but the nephew of a king without a kingdom, no different from all the others who had sought refuge in the West. A troublemaker wrecking havoc throughout the corridors of the Blue Mountains alongside his brother.

What had they talked about then?

Much to his luck, Frár and Nola then decided to finally read the contents of the letter, and Fíli was spared the uncomfortable pressure of thinking up a topic of conversation. While the Dwarven pair did not read the words out loud, Fíli could not help but wonder what was written inside; he could not imagine much else but well-mannered pleasantries. Perhaps wordings of a wish to once more meet with her travelling companions.

As they finished reading they then passed the letter on to their son.

Dark eyes scanned across the page swiftly, before he glanced to Frár with a brow furrowed deeply.

"She asks if we can come visit her before she takes to the road once more," the young Dwarf spoke, setting the letter aside on the table. Fíli found her departure to be rather swift and sudden. "So soon, though?" The question mirrored his own thoughts well.

 _Too soon._

When Fíli heard those words, he felt as if someone had punched him full force in the stomach and he inhaled sharply. For a brief moment he all but forgot where he was, staring down on to his hands clenched in his lap.

He barely realized that Lóni had asked another question, this time directed towards the princes. "My Lords, if I may inquire, is there any word on when the Mountain opens to outsiders yet?"

Luckily his brother had paid a little more attention.

"It is hard to say much about such matters ... but not for a time anyways," Kíli explained, resting his fingers around the cup. A booted foot hardly nudged Fíli below the table, and he quickly drew away from his own thoughts; his head snapped up, attempting to take part in the conversation once more. He felt flustered, but it did not appear as if their hosts had noticed his unbefitting conduct. He breathed slowly, evenly. "There is still much to be done before we can handle outsiders in the Mountain."

Lóni stroked his beard and hummed below his breath, then shifted his gaze.

" _Adad_ , can we then visit _her_ in Dale?"

Frár pondered the question for a moment. "And what of your work, then?"

"I shall work the forges twice as hard to not fall behind on my duties."

"Me too!" The Dwarfling exclaimed eagerly with a mouth full of strawberries, while she nearly toppled down her chair. "I want to see Ranel too!"

Her mother was quick to silence her, shaking her head. "Absolutely not! You are not going anywhere, young lady, and I will have no squabble about the matter." The girl opened her mouth to argue but was silenced with a long, stern gaze. "My word is final. _No._ " Instead Lóna looked to her father for assistance; a pout crawled into her features, small hands fumbling with her dress.

Fíli knew that look all too well. How often had they not used those very same eyes on their mother if they wanted something? And how often had they not promptly been met with an immediate no? The Dwarfling's fate was no different. "Listen to your mother, little one, she knows best." Frár said. "You are too young to travel such a way."

At first she took a deep breath, temper flaring in warning of an incoming tantrum, but then she jumped from her chair and pointedly stomped from the room.

She came back right away, took the bowl of strawberries, and marched off.

Neither parent looked much impressed with their daughter's behaviour. "I must apologise once more," Frár spoke with a sigh.

"We have all been children once," Fíli laughed, "and I have seen my brother the same way many a times."

Kíli raised an eyebrow at the jab; he shot Fíli a look of challenge before, with the corners of his mouth tilting into a grin, nodded towards Lóni. "I agree that the little one is too young to leave the Mountain, but what of your son? We have business in Dale this coming week, and he is most welcome to join us then. He should be in no danger in our company."

This time it was the older prince who was left gaping.

Kíli looked awfully pleased.

* * *

The last time Fíli had seen someone sit so rigidly upright in a saddle, ramrod straight, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield had just left the Shire with a very dismayed Hobbit in their mids. That day Bilbo had certainly proven that Halflings were not of the riding folks, and that breathing had been almost impossible while straddling a pony.

The memory brought a smile to his lips.

Although he was still rather irked by his brother extending an invitation without consulting him first, he nonetheless found the situation to be of some amusement. The young Dwarf, Lóni, son of Frár, was likely not mortally fearful of his current steed – a brown and white spotted, good-natured mare. No, chances were it was his current company that put him off.

But as promised, the princes had five days later once more met with the blacksmith's oldest child at the gates of Erebor. This time he had greeted them with utmost politeness – likely having received a firm reprimand the week prior.

He was dressed in light travelling garb, and at his hip hung an axe.

While Kíli spoke of duties bringing them to Dale either way, hence a companion more or less would matter little, they did not have any true purpose for the journey. Again the brown haired Dwarf had persuaded their uncle with excuses of how fresh air would do them good; though Fíli was not quite certain they were believed. In fact, he had a feeling they had been dismissed just to spare Thorin the headache of listening much longer.

Light clouds came up in the distant South and were blown away upon the breeze.

It was still the early hours of morning, and all was bright and clear around them as they followed the road to the city of Men. The sun was rising, painting with streaks of pink and orange. Birds were chirping away, some soaring as black shadows across the skies high above, and others making their way through the long grass hidden from sight. The River Running could be heard, its waters chuckling as it bend and carved through the landscape.

Embers smoldered still in the large braziers flanking the gates into the Mountain, sending trails of light-grey ash fluttering into the sky. The night-watch lowered their spears in greeting. Wind rushed around Fíli, pulling at his hair, and his heart lifted.

Several travellers passed them as they went; some leaving the Mountain to set up stalls in Dale's marketplaces, and others looked for the first time upon the Lonely Mountain with reverence and tearful joy after a long journey. Fíli and Kíli rode side by side, breathing the fresh and clear air of morning, and behind them rode Lóni amongst a small company of armed guards.

And once again Dwalin was with them, sullen and bad tempered, helping very little to ease the young Dwarf's worries. "The grass is green and the sky is blue, Master Dwalin, surely you cannot be in a bad mood on such a fine morning!" Kíli called over his shoulder down the line of riders.

"When I have to watch you two again, doing Mahal knows what? Then yes, it is easy to disregard a _fine morning._ " The response came briskly, tersely and made Fíli wonder if perhaps rather than to fear the assault of bandits, he should worry more about Dwalin finally losing his patience.

Fíli shook his head at his brother's antics.

"Well," Kíli added, "no one asked you to join us!"

It had rained some during the night and the ponies sloshed through puddles, sending droplets of murky water flying. The company followed behind a cart drawn by a pair of oxen, loaded high with bags of metal-work for Dale's fortifications.

Green spread as far as the eye could see and further still, until the land vanished in the horizon and was swallowed by the sky. Summer had truly settled over the region for the first time since the dragon lay a shadow upon the Mountain. "What is your plan, brother, once we arrive in Dale?" Fíli whispered.

A riot of flowers dotted the sloped hills.

"Why, of course, we go to visit our minstrel!"

Fíli wanted to add that she was not _their_ minstrel, but thought the better of it. "And we shall do that with a handful of guards following? That would definitely not raise questions." He regarded his brother steadily but then, exhaling, admitted, "I do not wish to be known as a Prince of Durin – I much prefer to be just _me."_

Kíli pulled the bridle and slowed his pony; the riders behind halted and allowed them room for privacy. When Fíli looked over he caught Kíli watching him thoughtfully. The brown haired Dwarf seemed unsure of what to say at first, but then he gave a smile as if knowing something no one else did.

He spurred his pony forward again, leaving Fíli to marvel at what had just transpired and none the wiser about their guards.


	15. A Leisurely Stroll

Thanks ever so much for the feedback from those that reviewed!

I'm glad my story is appreciated and every chapter is well received, and it really help me to write more, so thanks a whole bunch really. As always my updates are sporadic at best, and my interest fluctuates (and I'm totally not in the middle of writing the start of an Éomer x OC story (though I promise it won't be posted before this story is way further ahead than it is now!)).

Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

 **When Ravens Fly**

Chapter XV: A Leisurely Stroll

* * *

Day after day passed uneventful, and only little change came to the city of Dale while Ranel walked its streets; at first she hoped to see familiar faces, expectant, but soon the eagerness was washed away by thoughts of reality. She had based her thoughts off the nobility of Gondor, who never appeared to have much work to do, and she had assumed the same proved true with Dwarves – but clearly she had been wrong.

The letter would arrive, without a doubt, at one point or another when the brothers had time, and surely she could rein in her ever growing impatience until then.

But Ranel could not completely subdue the twitches in her fingers, the constant tugs and pulls at her clothes when she knew not what to do with her hands; in a restlessness that could not be quenched. It was not the city, for she found it charming and captivating; the winding streets and quiet, hidden places; the music of its people, the trade and the bustling life. Songs could be written about the rooftops, sparkling red in the rising sun, or of the moonlit streets bathed in an almost ethereal light when she walked alone in the early hours of evening.

It was not wanderlust that consumed her, as it had done many a time before and lured her out into new travels. Seeking new and unwalked lands.

No. The pull was something else entirely. Beyond the shimmering and clear waters of the Long Lake, the dark smudge a horrid contrast to the surrounding blue of both water and sky, the ruins of the old town so often held her gaze. Transfixed. Locked upon the faint outline of a great carcass, decaying and sinking into the depths of the lake, and every time Ranel was painfully reminded of her initial purpose in visiting.

She wished to meet her Dwarven companions, but she also wished to leave and never return. To finally turn her back on a past she had long left behind. With a furrowed brow, eyes downcast to her fingers on the lute, she focused her mind on her own breathing. The morning was clear, but her thoughts were dark. Inhaling. Exhaling. Swishing strokes of a broom filled the quiet air as the matron's daughter swept the courtyard clean; Edild hummed a soft tune, steps light as if dancing, and ever so often she would spin her dreamed-up partner around.

Ranel watched the shadow diminish and grow thin, fleeing across the cobblestones when the sun climbed over the roof.

Again her fingers ran across the carved flowers on the lebethron wood, fidgeting, until she finally let out a great sigh. It had been enough to catch Edild's attention, and the sweeping paused as the girl came to a halt. "A woman can say more in a sigh than any words can speak," she commented good-heartedly, leaning against the broom with eyebrows raised. "How can one worry when the sun is out and no cloud is in sight?"

With a smile tugging at her lips, Ranel shook her head.

"Dark thoughts can always find a way if the person invites them in, good weather or not!" She waved off her own remark, tilting her shoulders as she fell back against the wall. A gleam was in her eyes when she looked to the girl. "Worry not for me, I am merely pondering old thoughts that have been pondered many times before." Ranel gave a short laugh then. "And they likely shall be again in times to come."

"Perhaps you should much rather ponder good thoughts instead?" Edild suggested.

Again she laughed. "That is sound advice, and perhaps I will be wise enough to take it to heart."

The barmaid nodded, one last brief look at the minstrel, before she took to her duties once more.

Some time passed without either speaking and only the hoarse caws of crows filtered through the silence, when Edild put aside the broom and spoke once more. Though, as Ranel soon noticed, the words were not meant for her. "Can I help you with anything?" The girl called out; hands on her hips and a bite to her tone sounding less than welcoming, and the minstrel looked up.

Peering through the green vines, eyes narrowed in animosity, the child responded with little civility. "I'm not here for you, so don't go sticking your nose into other people's business."

Edild sucked in a breath, indignation clear on her features and her grip on the broom tightened; Ranel watched the boy once more, glancing over tufts of brown hair and quick-witted dark eyes set in a unwashed face, peaking out from the pillar; and recognition settled in her mind. She had certainly seen him before. "I can imagine you are here for me," Ranel called out, and he turned his gaze onto her with a tautness to his jaw. "Although I cannot imagine why. For surely it is not to pay me back the coins you so brazenly stole?"

"I haven't got the faintest idea of what you speak of, lady."

"I didn't think so either," she responded blankly, yet to meet a thief willingly confessing to his crimes with honesty. Her pouch had long found a new owner, and the gold passed hands; that much she knew and expected. She shifted on the bench and patted the hard stone by her side. "Well then, come out from your hiding and tell me what you are after – and let me make it clear from the beginning, there is naught of value on my person this time!"

At first he hesitated, gaze flickering between her and broom-wielding Edild, but then he squared his shoulders and walked over. He took a seat, perched on the very edge of the bench as he made sure to keep a distance from the minstrel. His feet, brushing back and forth over the ground, were bare. "You should not feed strays, otherwise they will come back expecting more," the innkeeper's daughter remarked.

"Do I look like an animal to you?" He bit back sharply, glowering and attempting to look much more intimidating than anyone his size could ever be.

"You don't look like a paying customer either."

Ranel brushed aside her hair, sighed, and settled in her seat to get a better look at the young boy, before speaking. "Edild, that is enough, please. He is here for me and I shall hear what he has to say." Placing the lute on the ground by her side carefully, she folded her hands in her lap and looked at him expectantly. If not for the fact he had stolen from her, she would surely have felt pity for him then; she knew what it was like to go hungry, and the telltale signs were all too clear in his gaunt face.

Rawboned arms were pulled together across his chest, his shoulder blades prominent through the tattered shirt; fingers calloused and nails dark with dirt, but he held his head high and his gaze was unwavering when their eyes met. He could not be very old – no more than seven or eight summers, perhaps. So young, and so alone. Ranel wondered briefly what had happened to her money – clearly he had spent them unwisely, or not on himself at all.

Her face softened. "A bit of bread, if you please, Edild," she said and glanced to the boy, "And a glass of milk, too."

While Edild appeared ready to argue, one quick look from Ranel made her promptly change her mind; and so the food was placed on the space between them, and the girl left them alone. It took very little convincing for the boy to take the bread, gulping it down as he chewed each bite only a little. Not once did his eyes – _dark blue like the night_ , she noted – stray from her face.

"What is your name?" She asked.

Swallowing, he wiped his mouth with a sleeve. "Lif," he said. "You?"

"Ranel."

He huffed in reply, grabbing the mug of milk and emptied it as if his life depended on it; with a white beard of foam he continued. "It doesn't sound like a name from around here at all," he remarked with some haughty disdain to his voice, before turning his attention on the bread once more. She almost snorted in amusement, amazed at his cheekiness despite everything.

"That's because it isn't," she said. "But now you've been fed and all, so tell me why you sought me out."

The bread stopped halfway to his lips; but then he put down his hands and a wistful look came over him. The child appeared much older than he was, aged through the harshness of life. Shoulders slumped, eyes darkened, and then he pursed his lips. "You said there were other ways ..." It was but a low mumble, too faint for Ranel to hear him clearly. It forced her to lean closer in her seat, until he repeated. "That day at the market, you told me there were other ways to make money – _how_?"

Ranel's brow furrowed. "Through honest work, of course–"

He slammed his hand down hard on the bench at her words, making the tray rattle and Ranel jump, as he barked a reply. " _Honest work_? Who would hire me? A child with no parents, no skills but quick fingers! How could I ever make money but to steal?" Surprised and taken aback, she watched him; his chest rose and fell rapidly, and his gaze an unreadable dark.

 _You poor thing_ , she thought, feeling his heartbreak clearly even though it was not her own. Of course he had never wished to become a thief; it was not a fate he had chosen for himself. It had been forced upon him. A sudden coldness trickled down her cheek; she brushed a hand over the skin, gathering the tear that had fallen. When had she started crying? The empty mug rolled across the cobblestones, thrown in his powerlessness, and then it settled and stopped.

"You don't know anything, I just want to go back to how things used to be!"

His eyes were glassy, threatening to spill tears of frustration, and apparently her own had mirrored his. She was at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing with nothing to say. Instead she reached out and pulled the boy into an embrace; he struggled, fisted hands attempting to push her away, but she managed to wrap her arms around him. It was not often she had to comfort children, and it felt awkward to her but despite it all she tried her best.

His face burrowed in the hollow of her neck, and soon she could feel moisture seeping into her shirt. His efforts in pulling away grew feeble until they stilled. "Hush now, everything will be all right," she whispered into his hair.

While rocking him back and forth, soothingly, she softly sang; it was but an old cradle song, not noteworthy nor grand, but nothing else seemed suitable for the situation. Ranel felt the tautness drain from the small body in her arms, the fists now clutching the end of her clothes. Strangled sobs, muffled and restrained, turned to hiccups.

When had he last been allowed to be a small child and sought comfort? She stroked his hair, unwashed and mucky but still soft to the touch, and she glanced to the sky above. There were no clouds; it was but a blue cover pulled across the world, so clear and open to adventure – yet the devastation of the ancient beast had robbed the boy from the chance to ever enjoy the beauty of the world around him.

They sat for many long moments after her song had ended.

Quietly, without a word spoken, she listened to his breathing as it calmed. Then she brushed her hands across his face, rubbing at the dirt and grime with a small smile. "Well, what say you to us getting you scrubbed clean, and then we'll go find someone to carve you a flute?" Lif blinked in confusion, eyes red and swollen, and the previous mask of self-confidence gone and replaced with doubtful insecurity.

"W–what?" He sniffed.

A sleeve was pulled across his face, scrubbing at his runny nose.

She picked up her lute and pulled him to his feet. "I told you, didn't I? There are other ways to earn money. I'll show you how."

And so the unlikely pair stepped into the tavern, but even with many words of persuasion Edild refused to warm water to draw a bath. Instead Ranel brought the boy to the small enclosure on the other side of the buildings, where she could pull water from a well and it proved useful enough to scrub the worst grime from his face. Ranel had managed to pry a bar of soap from the barmaid, and when she poured a bucket of water over Lif, the brown hair turned almost golden as swirls of mud gathered at his feet.

His outer garments were placed in the sun to dry; a cloth draped around his thin shoulders, he leaned against the stones of the well, watching her. He seemed to ponder something, torn between speaking and keeping quiet. But finally he was courageous enough to voice his thoughts. "Thank you," he said softly, cheeks reddening.

Ranel smiled. "Doing good has never harmed anyone," she said.

* * *

The winding streets of Dale were much different in the pale morning light; the sun was now climbing over the walls, and a breeze borne from the East tugged at streamers with loud snapping flaps. Their road from the inn had last been in the gloom of night, in the hour of darkness, and then they had followed the large tower of the Lord and the gate as beacons. But now, several times the company of Dwarves went in circles, climbing hills and descending again; following narrow streets and through open spaces.

In the end they swallowed their own pride and asked for directions; they had to ask several people on their way, for the small and hidden inn were known to only a few. But finally the twisting vines running across the pillars came into view, and a strange sense of anticipation came over Fíli when he dismounted. Behind him he heard the rest of the company coming a stop, hooves clacking against the stones, as they pulled their ponies through the entrance.

The stable boy looked ill at ease as he saw the many animals, stuttering apologies; the inn could not house so many. But with reassuring words that they could share stalls without issue, he guided them away with some help from two Dwarves. The remaining company entered the inn, finding it empty this early during the day. Fíli looked to his brother. "Now then, what plan do you have in mind?"

Kíli stepped forward towards the counter, heavy boots the only sound in the silence.

He did not need to wait for long, before footsteps could be heard; the young woman, who had served them previously, climbed the steps from the basement, a bundle of linens draped over her shoulder. Her mouth fell open. "Oh my," she said. Then she hurried to the counter, settling aside the white cloths, and attempted to replace her surprise with a smile. "What may I do for you, good Sirs?"

"Breakfast for the company, first of all," Kíli said, then pointed towards the tables. "May we draw some tables together?"

She nodded quickly. "Of course." Then her eyes trailed over the company of Dwarves. "Breakfast for all of you?"

"Yes, although there is no need to rush – we plan to stay around for some time. We came early, and I can imagine the kitchen is not yet prepared for guests?" He smiled. "If you keep them provided with ale, then they shall prove quite the patient lot."

They had soon pulled two tables together, placed chairs for everyone, and so the guards – albeit with some confusion as to their purpose – were equipped with a mug of ale each. The barmaid, jutting down quick and scrambled notes, took everyone's orders; roasted chicken and ham, potatoes and sauteed carrots; bread, with butter and cheese, blueberry jam; fruit, if they had any, and a pot of tea. Fíli felt a pang of sympathy for the young woman, strands of blonde hair coming loose and cheeks flushed, and he planned to give her a suitable tip once they were done.

It took some time before the food arrived, but when the guards had finally passed around plates and were digging in, Kíli beckoned the barmaid over. "We are here with other business in mind," he said, "Last we were here you housed a minstrel, and we delivered a letter for her." The woman nodded, showing she remembered it clearly. "With us we have brought someone she wished to meet – is she still here?"

"She is," she answered, "I believe she is resting, for I have not seen her leave this morning. Shall I go wake her for you?"

"If you would not mind, then yes."

"Right away," the woman disappeared up the stairs. Fíli felt extremely anxious about the meeting, almost to the point of apprehension. But she had wished to meet her Dwarven companions again, so surely she would feel nothing but gladness upon seeing them again. _Of course_ , he thought darkly and took a swig of ale, _she wants to see the blacksmith's family._ He sighed.

Not them.

The blacksmith's son, sitting between a large red-bearded Dwarf and Dwalin, answered questions as best he could; his purpose in visiting Dale, how he knew the Princes of Durin, and he often shot questioning looks towards Fíli and Kíli, unsure of how to respond to such inquiries. But he was then spared. Two pairs of footsteps thudded down the staircase, and soon the barmaid appeared with another woman close behind; her long brown hair was tousled, and her fingers worked nimbly to straighten and correct her clothes.

Fíli quickly rose to his feet to greet her, his hands mirroring hers as he smoothened his tunic; he wished he had not seen the amused look Kíli shot him then. The minstrel appeared confused at first, gaze running over the large group of Dwarves with eyebrows furrowed. Her eyes rested a moment longer on the princes, recognition flashing and a smile tugged at her lips, but soon her attention was drawn away.

Lóni had stood upon her arrival, and he stepped forward to greet her.

The Dwarf bowed as her custom, but with barely contained joy she flung both arms around his much broader shoulders. Fíli, finding himself still standing, glanced away; he returned to his seat, hands curled beneath the table. "How good to see you again, Lóni," she said, teeth bared in a wide grin when she released him again. "It is so wonderful."

"My family sends their regard," he said, "They, too, wished to be here but could not with work."

Listening to his words, happiness clear on her features, she guided him to a pair of chairs further from the group. But it was not too far; Fíli could still hear their conversation, even though he adamantly refused to admit he was listening in. She had seen him clearly – recognized, obviously – yet not greeted him. He pressed the mug to his lips, hiding a frown.

"Lóna did attempt to sneak into my bag, but her wriggling gave her away."

"I would dearly like to see her again, but I cannot blame your parents for keeping her home."

From the corner of his eye, Fíli watched the pair; how she leaned forward, with such familiarity and closeness, and a sense of shame overcame him when he understood his own feelings. The sharp pang, cutting into his stomach; deeper than any knife could ever dig. _Jealousy_. He put aside his drink. His mind reeled, playing every encounter over and over in his head; their first meeting on the shore of the Long Lake, how he had followed the green cloak with zealous stubbornness. For how long had he felt this way?

Fíli knew Kíli was watching, seeing all the subtle changes in his features only a brother could read.

And he understood, finally knew, why Kíli had acted as he had.

A hand pressed down on his shoulder, squeezed in support, as the younger prince stood. The touch lingered a moment longer, but then Kíli walked to the pair; he gave a swift bow at the minstrel, and she lowered her head in return. "You have my thanks, my lord, for bringing Lóni with you. And my gratitude for delivering my letter," she spoke.

"It was nothing," Kíli waved off her appreciation, "And it was rather my brother who did all the work."

"Nonetheless, you have my thanks," she laughed.

A brief moment of silence followed, while the prince regarded them thoughtfully; then, running a hand over his stubble beard, he worded his question. "Say, Master Lóni, you have not seen Dale before, have you?"

"No, my Lord," the Dwarf replied.

Kíli grinned, receiving the answer he had hoped for and expected. "Well, then, what say you to a leisurely stroll through the city? I always find the opening of the markets an interesting view, and the weather is just right for a walk. Do you not agree?" There was left little room for agreement – or disagreement – and the younger Dwarf merely opened his mouth to reply, before he was cut off. "Brilliant! Shall we?"

Following in the wake of the whirlwind that was his brother, the guards were left behind at the inn; the barmaid had been paid generously to keep them well supplied with both ale and food, and no disagreement was voiced when the princes departed alone. If, of course, one was to disregard Dwalin. The old warrior they could not shake, and they tried very little to do so for it would be a most futile endeavor.

Ahead walked Lóni and the minstrel, followed by Kíli and Fíli, and Dwalin made up the rear. She appeared to know the way, leading them through narrow alleys, all the while pointing here and there as she shared stories with the Dwarf. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, mulling over how little thought she had spared on him. "I knew not we were attending a funeral," Kíli said unconcerned.

Fíli shot him a look. "I see little purpose in being here."

"Well, we can leave those two and return if you so wish?"

Deeming him unworthy of an answer, Fíli fixed his gaze ahead and squared his chin.

Rather than continuing the conversation, the brown haired Dwarf hastened his pace and caught up to the ones in front. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, he wedged himself between the two, a smile on his lips, and he exchanged a few words with the other Dwarf. The minstrel did not seem to take the interruption to heart and merely carried on; of course Lóni could not point out his prince's discourteous behaviour, but was forced to mannerly reply.

They followed a shadowed path a while longer. Then the quiet town stirred and came to life; the first they could hear were voices, rising to a great volume as they approached a marketplace ahead. The path opened and soon they found themselves between traders and merchants; several dusins of tables were set up, wares were put on display, and carts going to and fro carved through the throng of people.

At the edge of the crowd, they halted.

Kíli was still putting claim to the young blacksmith's attention, leaving the minstrel by herself. Her eyes caught his and she smiled, inclining her head. He saw it as an invitation to approach; he walked up, digging his hands out of his pockets, and stood before her. "Good day, my Lord. I never did extend my gratitude to you, so I must thank you for making it possible for me to meet Lóni again."

"It was very little you asked of us, so of course," he replied. "I barely did anything, Miss Ranel."

"Just Ranel, if you please," she said. His brother started moving once more, marching ahead with Lóni, and they followed into the lively market square. Fíli and the minstrel fell into step next to each other. Her mouth tilted to a grin. "And your brother said the same, My Lord."

Fíli smiled. "Did he now? And you need not address me so, Fíli will do just fine."

A gleam came to her eye, but then she looked ahead. "Very well, Lord Fíli."

This time he let out a laugh.


End file.
